


Private Universe

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Dreams are What We're Made Of [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Imagery, M/M, Slash, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock jumped off of St. Bart's to prevent Moriarty from killing his only friends Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade and Molly Hooper. He is lying in a coma. Mycroft has ordered Dr. John Watson to Dream Merge with his brother to find out the truth behind what at first looks like a suicide attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the idea comes from the song of the same name by Crowded House & is my new obsession of a song – which happens with me – now I will play it incessantly and my family will kill me:P This is a little bit inspired by The Cell, not as gory and creepy but hopefully as visually stunning! – More of a fluffy love story – not heavy on plot – I don’t think – more musing on Johlockedness – at least so far! Of course I say that now… (I’ll shut up now!).
> 
> Don't own, wish I did.

Prologue

 

John sighed.

 He was tired and he didn’t really want to be here.

 But he hadn’t been given a choice.

 He flipped through the chart. The man lying on the bed had deliberately jumped. There were extensive injuries including, no doubt, brain trauma. He had actually been lucky. It looked like he had set up the jump on purpose; a large air mattress, the kind used in movie stunts on the back of a lorry, had taken the impact from most of his fall but a glancing blow on the side of the lorry had rendered him unconscious. He had also managed to twist his leg underneath himself and had broken it in several places. Bruising, wrenched muscles, cuts.

 Normally not the kind of person John would have attempted Dream Merging, but he had been ordered to come. Orders that came from on high.

 Orders from the brother of the man lying on the bed.

 The door to the hospital room opened behind him. He didn’t turn around. He knew who it was without looking.

 The known entity also refused to immediately acknowledge John’s presence. The last time they had spoken it had not been pleasant.

 John cautiously watched the older man as he laid an almost tender hand upon the patient’s head. John was surprised. Nothing in his experience with the man so far had indicated he had any emotions, let alone affection. However, this was his younger brother, so perhaps he was the exception.

 Of course it could all be for show, knowing John would be more likely to help someone because of affection than not.

  _Punching my buttons. Mr. Holmes?_

Mr. Mycroft Holmes turned to John at that moment and raised an imperious brow, almost as if he had heard John’s internal query.

 “Well, Dr. Watson? Have you changed your mind?” He didn’t bother to reiterate the arguments of the previous evening, attempting to win John over with words like _duty_ and _national security,_ although normally that would have done some measure of swerving John’s commitment toward helping him. He was not the type of man to repeat himself so he tried a different tactic and deducing the expression on the good doctor’s face it looked like it might be working.

 “Dr. Watson, he is after all my baby brother. My only family. I need to know why he jumped and what happened on the roof of the hospital. I know you won’t do it for my previous reasons, but will you do it to answer questions?”

 John looked at Mycroft steadily. “Your motives for wanting to know are still the same motives you had last night. You are just trying to present it more attractively, wrapping it up in sibling affection. You have read my file very thoroughly haven’t you?”

 Bring in family might have been a mistake. Fascinating. This Dr. Watson was surprising, and certainly did not respond to the usual manipulations. He was definitely interesting. Perhaps interesting and intriguing enough not to get kicked out of his brother’s brain.

 Mycroft straightened. “Very well Dr. Watson. What will it take for you to merge with my brother, to help me find the answers I’m looking for? Would you respond to threats, perhaps?”

 A cold calculating look replaced the more alien one of brotherly concern that had been on his face earlier.

 “You don’t frighten me, Mr. Holmes.”

 “No, I don’t suppose I do. Remarkable. So Doctor, will you answer my question?”

 “You could try ‘Please’.” The corner of John’s mouth quirked. “It’s the one thing you haven’t said yet.”

 Mycroft continued to stare frostily at the much shorter man in front of him. He cleared his throat.

 “Very well. Please.”

 John locked eyes for a moment longer, not wanting to give up his slight advantage.

 “Right then. Let’s get set up.”

 He began to leave, to prepare things down in the lab, but before he left he turned back to Mycroft.

 “One more thing, Mr. Holmes. One more reminder. There is no guarantee this will work. There is no guarantee that your brother’s brain isn’t too damaged for me to make sense of anything in there. I will most likely get kicked out, perhaps not be allowed back in.”

 Mycroft straighten even more if that was possible.

 “As long as you do your best, Dr. Watson. That’s all I ask.”

 It was John’s turn for a frosty glare. “I always do Mr. Holmes.”

 Mycroft watched the doctor leave the room.

 He then looked down at his brother lying there, pale and unnaturally still on the bed. Sherlock was never still.

 This time he didn’t have to fake the look of concern and affection on his face.

 “I am doing all that I can, Sherlock. I am not quite ready to give up on you as easily as you are.”

 He pulled up the chair beside Sherlock’s bed and while no one was in the room to see, he held on to his baby brother’s hand.


	2. No Time, No Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter wrote up fast. I think I am excited about this story. Hmmm. Just so you know some of my ‘dream theory’ stuff is real and some of it is just out of my little old head. And that’s all you need to know about that. Oh and a smallish plot does seem to be developing, but most of this will be relationship stuff:) Well and smut of course!!
> 
> Chapter titles are from Private Universe by Crowded House.
> 
> Still don’t own. Think I am going to go and dream I do.

John hunted Mycroft down about an hour later. He found him still sitting beside his brother’s bed, reading what looked like super secret government files. At least that’s what he told himself. He didn’t look up when John entered. The doctor stood there for a few minutes.

 He cleared his throat.

 “Yes, Dr. Watson, I am well aware of your presence. Is there any particular reason why you are standing here and not overseeing the arrangements for my brother’s procedure?”

 “There are a few things that have to be taken care of before we proceed.”

 “Such as?”

 “You can answer a few questions about your brother. _” You arrogant, poncy git._

 “Is this strictly necessary?” Mycroft crossed his legs, put down the file he was reading, placed his hands on his lap and looked at John with a slightly condescending smile. “Besides have you heard nothing of my brother? He is quite famous at the moment. Or perhaps infamous is a more correct description.”

 John nodded, frowning slightly, “I understand he is a detective of some sort, but other than that, no I don’t know much about him. That is why I am here.”

 Mycroft sighed, “I am rather pressed for time.” He indicated the file he had set down. “The Government doesn’t run itself.”

 John narrowed his eyes. _Has this government bureaucratic fool even read the information about Dream Merging?_   He then spoke in his best military voice. It hadn’t been that long since his army days. “I am about to waltz into your brother’s head, which is dangerous for both of us, particularly when it involves brain injury and you want me to go in there and extract specific information. That is not going to be easy. I have no idea what I am getting into in there. I usually spend a certain amount of time getting to know my patients before hand. Get to know what they like, what they hate and more specifically what they fear. That is what this procedure is primarily used for, dream therapy. Working on patients’ anxieties. I have only ever gone in blind once and that ended very badly, both for the patient and for myself. I do not wish to repeat the experience if at all possible.” He crossed his arms and continued to glare at the man in the suit.

 “I don’t really understand what the difficulty is, Dr. Watson. You just go in there, find my brother and ask him why he jumped. If at all possible, I need to know what happened on the roof.”

 John felt his blood pressure rise. Was this arse serious? Did he know anything about what was going on or did he just count on this as a last ditch attempt to get what he wanted and if he threw his weight around enough he hoped it would work?

  _The later,_ he thought _._

“Mr. Holmes, have you ever seen a Salvador Dali painting? Or Picasso perhaps?”

 If Mycroft was surprised by the question he didn’t show it.

 “Yes.”

 Sarcasm edged John’s voice. “Well since you are familiar with their work let us proceed from there. That is slightly what you experience stepping into the dreamer’s head when we Dream Merge. It’s a harsh and ever changing landscape. Things inside a person’s head aren’t like reality. It isn’t reality. It’s whatever the dreamer makes it to be. If I have an idea of your brother’s personality, of his likes and dislikes, of his dreams and wishes, then I have an idea how to be prepared.” Mycroft didn’t blink. There was no identifiable expression on his face. John didn’t think he was getting through so he thought for a moment. He tried a different approach. “It’s like going to a foreign country and you don’t know the language or the customs. That’s where you can help me. If you answer my questions, then it’s like a guidebook for me. I am going into Sherlock’s world. I don’t know the language or the customs of that world, but you can at least prevent me from starting an international incident.”

 Mycroft lifted his head and a bemused expression crossed his face. “Believe me, Dr. Watson, I am quite sure the way my brother thinks _would_ most likely cause an international incident.” And there it was, finally, an honest expression. Amusement. John mentally wiped his brow. Now for the easy part.

 John sat down and leaned back.

 “Tell me about your brother.”

 oOo

 Mycroft Holmes entered the lab, standing cool and efficient, just as John was checking the last of the leads on Sherlock’s head. John would be lying down soon and Sarah would attach his. John glanced up as he felt the weight of Mycroft’s stare.

 He walked to over to Mycroft and introduced his team.

 “This is Dr. Sarah Sawyer and Dr. Mike Stamford. Dr. Sawyer will be responsible for monitoring your brother while we are under and Dr. Stamford will monitor me. Dr. Sawyer is the designer of the medication that makes this all possible and Dr. Stamford and I co-wrote the computer program that bridges our minds.”

 Sarah nodded from where she had just finished checking the last of the EEG leads on Sherlock’s head and connections to heart and respiration. Mike waved a cheery hello at Mycroft who inclined his head to Sarah and simply raised an eyebrow at Mike’s familiarities.

 “I am well informed about your team, Dr. Watson,” he murmured, turning back to John.

 John grit his teeth as he shoved his pride down hard. “Of course you are,” was all he said.

 “John,” Sarah interrupted, probably on purpose. She had heard all about the argument the night before and the encounter earlier. She was curious as to why John was still willing to go through with the procedure but she knew he would have his reasons. “Everything is ready and we are set to go.”

 “Right. We’d better get started then. It may take several sessions to retrieve the information you are looking for. From what you have told me about your brother he may be less than forth coming about sharing his information with me.”

 “On the contrary Dr. Watson. There’s nothing my brother enjoys more than an audience. You may have a hard time getting a word in edgewise.”

 The doctor just nodded. He turned to finish checking the monitors while Mike completed entering the last of the parameters into the computer program. Sarah had slipped out to grab coffee and sandwiches for her and Mike. They wouldn’t get a break for the next few hours and neither had had supper yet.

 John walked over and checked Sherlock’s vital signs one last time. There were no changes since the last time. He glanced down at the pale, still form lying on the bed. There was something rather vulnerable about the way the man lying on the bed looked, like he was younger than his actual age. He certainly didn’t look like someone who chased criminals around and caught murderers with the police.

 At that moment, Sarah returned, handed Mike his coffee and came over to finish getting John ready. Once he was hooked up, she connected him to the computer running the program that would enable John to merge his consciousness with Sherlock’s, set up the IV with a combination of the drug and a sedative. She very professionally placed the IV into John’s arm.

 “Nicely done,” he whispered to her. She smiled and brushed his hair back.

 “Be careful.”

 He smiled at her. “When am I not careful?”

 “Always. I think you do this for the thrills.”

 He chuckled “You know me very well, don’t you?”

 She smiled again and walked back to her station.

 John felt the edge of darkness creeping up on his vision and soon he was under.

 Sarah sat down and made herself comfortable, while she watched Sherlock’s monitors. She looked back over her shoulder at Mycroft.

 “Pull up a chair, Mr. Holmes. Make yourself comfortable. We will be here a while.”

 “From what I understand he actually won’t be in the dream very long.”

 “No. But it usually takes awhile to get to REM sleep. And it typically takes time to come out of it again. It will seem longer or even shorter to him. There is no time in the dream world, no measurable time that is. We have him sedated for a few hours. He should be fine.”

 Mike muttered under his breath, “As long as nothing goes wrong.”

 Sarah threw him a dark look.

 “No worries, Dr. Sawyer. I am familiar with the Jamieson case. I am not holding it against any of you. I obviously trust you with my brother’s brain. I wouldn’t let you do this if I didn’t.”

 Mike muttered again, “Wasn’t John’s fault.”

 Mycroft declined to comment.

 Mike spoke again, “What’s his anchor this time?”

 Sarah answered with out looking up from her monitors. “An apple.”

 Mycroft cleared his throat.

 Sarah spoke up, “John needs an anchor, something from the real world that he projects into the dream world. When he sees it, it helps him remember he’s in a dream. It can be very disorientating when you first cross over into someone else’s dream. It may take him a moment to remember he isn’t awake. John was trained for Lucid Dreaming. Lucid Dreaming occurs when you are aware you are dreaming. He’s very good at it. It’s why he goes in and we don’t.” She turned back to the monitors.

 For the next little while all that was heard in the room were beeps from machines and the occasional comment from Sarah or Mike.

 In the heads of the two men asleep, a lot more was happening.

 oOo

 John was walking down a long white hall with Mike. He didn’t remember how he got there. He had thought he was on his way down to his lab and this didn’t look like that particular hallway. This looked like…

 “Bart’s?” he said.

 “That’s right, John. I’m taking you to meet a friend of mine.”

 John was momentarily confused, but he followed Mike into a room, one of the rooms they had used in med school. Mike closed the door behind him.

 “John, I’d like you to meet Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson.”

 John turned to look at the other person in the room. A tall man was bent over, looking at something in a petrie dish. He raised his head and John got a good look at his face.

 Long and angular, full mouth, dark, unruly hair, intense, fiery eyes, pale skin.

 Pale skin.

 Pale skin.

 Something about pale skin.

 Then John spotted the apple on the counter near Sherlock’s elbow.

 And everything came back to him.

 He was in Sherlock’s head.

 This was his dream world.

 He was here to ask questions.

 Without appearing to move, Sherlock was suddenly beside John, his penetrating stare absorbing John. “Afghanistan or Iraq? Doesn’t matter. You are going to say Afghanistan. Then I will ask you if you like the violin and inform you I won’t talk for days. You will stand there, looking confused. Why don’t we skip the formalities? Come with me.” And he whirled around.

 The room dissolved around them like a watercolour in the rain and they were in what looked like a flat. The most hideous wallpaper John had ever seen covered the walls; there was a cow skull on the wall wearing what appeared to be headphones and a human skull on the mantel. Papers and books were scattered everywhere and shelves and cases filled with all sorts of oddities. A violin was placed carefully in its case and a cheery fire was burning brightly in the fireplace. A warm spring breeze entered through the open windows. John was sitting in a lumpy chair.

  _Must be dreaming. This place looks like nothing you’d see in real life._

He turned to the man sitting across from him. He was dressed in an expensive tailored suit and a white shirt that looked a little too small. His hair could have used a good cut, but there was something about the disheveled curls that reminded John of the vulnerability he had seen in the man’s face in the hospital. His legs were crossed in a manner reminiscent to John of his older brother.

 “So,” said Sherlock, “why are you here.” It wasn’t really a question

 John stared at him, feeling his way through the conversation. Normally the patients he worked with knew who he was, knew to expect he would appear in their dreams, welcomed him as a champion to help them help themselves fight their fears, their nightmares. This is where he had lost Jamieson. Jamieson didn’t recognize him and had seen him as a threat. Jamison dealt with threats one way and one way only, but then he was a special case.

 John opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Sherlock, head tilted to one side, eyes darting back and forth, answered for him.

 “You’re a doctor. You were in the army, but you left to become a doctor. Any good?”

 “Yes. Very.”

 “But you’re not strictly a medical doctor. You work with traumatized patients. Head injuries? No. Therapy. Dream therapy.” Sherlock nodded. “That’s why you are here. This is a dream.”

 John was astounded. This had never happened before. It usually took several visits before a patient recognized they were dreaming.

 “That’s…that’s amazing. How did you know?”

 Sherlock smirked. “Read your article on Dream Merging, you and those other two, Stamford and Sawyer. Recognized your picture.”

 “That was three years ago. How on earth…?”

 Sherlock tapped the side of his head, “My mind is like a hard drive. Everything I need to know is in here. I must have felt that Dream Merging might come in handy some day. I didn’t delete you.”

 “Delete me?”

 “I only keep what’s important. Most people fill their heads with all sorts of unnecessary information.” He paused and if it was possible his eyes glowed even more intensely. “Hmmm. Interesting.”

 “What is?”

 “Normally, I have to enter my mind palace to access this information, but perhaps because we are dreaming and you are here, I was able to grab that piece of information without searching for it. You know what a mind palace is, correct?”

 “Yes. I know the theory.” John said simply.

 Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and John, who had already felt Sherlock’s penetrating gaze, had really not been prepared for how sharp it was. The way he had been analyzed by Sherlock previously, was nothing to the way he was being regarded now.

 “Something happened. You are here to ask me something.” He sat forward abruptly. “Mycroft sent you.” In a flash he was in John’s space, leaning into him. “Why are you here, Doctor? Are you spying for my brother? Is he paying you?”

 “No. I am not spying for your brother, but I am here on his behalf.”

 Sherlock leaned back slightly. “What has happened?” he asked softly. He blinked and tension filled his face.  The tension in his face was being transferred to the manifestation of the room. The walls and the light became darker, edges of it disappearing into nothingness, the fire died down and a fowl smelling, chill breeze replaced the warmer one. John heard something skittering in the walls. A powerful feeling of malevolence occupied the air between the two men. “No. I am not going back there. I am not doing it again.”

 He sat down and refused to look at John.

 “Not going where, Sherlock?” he asked softly. Something dark came out from under Sherlock’s chair. Something with bright red eyes and a rat like appearance. There was a pounding coming from somewhere and John realized it was the sound of his heart speeding up.

 Sherlock swung his gaze back at John and he ground his teeth together, his eyes flashed with anger and fear. Suddenly John and Sherlock were standing, Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s elbow tightly. The Thing from under the chair sprang at John and he heard a snap and felt a sharp pain in his ankle.

 “I am not going back to the _ROOF_!” yelled Sherlock.

 It made John jump it was so unexpected. There was pause. Sherlock, his tone changed to disinterest, said, “You are boring me. It’s time for you to go.” He pushed John roughly away.

 oOo

 Mike spoke for the first time in a long time.

 “Increased heart rate and respiration. I think he’s coming out of it. Rather abruptly it appears.”

 John sat up, gasping, heart pounding, confusion evident on his face as he took in his surroundings.

 Mycroft leaned forward as Mike rushed down to help John get his breath back and his heart rate under control.

 “What happened, Dr. Sawyer?”

 Sarah looked at Mycroft. “Dr. Watson was just rudely kicked out of your brother’s head. Mr. Holmes.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Talk About the Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears I am addicted to writing this story. Thanks for the unbelievable response to this fic! I hope it lives up to your expectations:) 
> 
> Some swearing!
> 
> Still don’t own! Damn!

John held his head in his hands as he leaned on the table in the cafeteria. Sarah was trying to force him to drink a glass of water. After grimacing at her for a few minutes, he could no longer ignore her steady glare. He gave it up as a lost cause and downed the glass. Mike had stayed behind in the lab to keep an eye on Sherlock.

 Mycroft was seated across the table from him, looking completely ill at ease and totally out of place.

  _Probably expecting a maître de_ , thought John.

 “What happened, Dr. Watson?”

 “Your brother took exception to me mentioning your name. He thinks you are interfering. There was something else as well, but please give me a moment to gather my thoughts. I have a splitting headache.” John said, rubbing his forehead.

 Mycroft did not look overly impressed. “Dr. Watson, you do not seem to understand how imperative it is I know why Sherlock jumped and what happened on the roof. Lives are at stake.” He leaned closer. “It wasn’t suicide. You don’t jump planning to kill yourself if you have a lorry with a large air mattress in it waiting for you at the bottom. So why jump off a roof? My brother enjoyed excitement and danger, but the excitement of the puzzle and the danger of the chase. He wasn’t a thrill seeker. Why did he jump?”

 John frowned at Mycroft, thinking if he asked that question one more time he might deck him. “Okay first of all, right now the only life I care about is Sherlock’s. It is a delicate thing doing what I do. I don’t want to go in there and cause more damage and I don’t want to acerbate any other problems. Because let me tell you something did happen on that roof, he scared shitless and it’s beginning to manifest itself. It might be what ever caused him to jump. At least I think that’s what’s going on.” He paused, losing track of the conversation momentarily as he thought about what had happened in Sherlock’s head. He cleared his throat, bringing himself back to the here and now. “Secondly,” and the anger that had been simmering under his skin, anger at Mycroft, could no longer be contained. “You bloody well might have mentioned that your brother doesn’t like you very much and you two have issues.” He stood, shoved his chair out of his way, forcefully, and left the cafeteria, not very swiftly as he seemed to be having difficulty walking.

 Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to Sarah. “Is there any particular reason why the doctor is limping?”

 Sarah shrugged. “When he first came out, he was not completely coherent and was muttering something about ‘It’ biting him on the leg. You see, outside stimulus can affect the body when you are asleep.” She frowned, trying to make herself clear. “If your hand falls asleep because your lying on it, you might dream that you lost your hand or it disappeared or a number of things. With what we do and the effects of the drugs we use, it can sometimes happen in reverse. Sometimes, when we dream, we bring things back with us. We have to examine the dream before he can go in again. We will know more when he tells us what happened in there.” She looked at Mycroft intently, and he was rather forcibly reminded of a time when his mother had not been particularly pleased with him over some infraction. “I suggest you follow him and let him know anything about your relationship with your brother that might cause difficulties.”

 She got up and left the table with a good deal more composure than John had.

 Mycroft continued to sit at the table for a few minutes longer, looking thoughtful.

 oOo

 John lay on the couch in his office, hands over his eyes. He removed them and glanced up when Sarah walked in and sat down in a chair.

 “Well?” she said.

 “Well what?” he asked tiredly.

 “Talk to me.”

 John sighed. “It was incredible, Sarah. I have never been in a mind so highly organized and as brilliant as his. I know Umbrella Man said he was smart, but this was unlike anything I have experienced before. He knew almost right away that it was a dream.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “But that wasn’t the strangest part. He knew who I was. Without having met me. He knew who I was and had a good idea I was there for a reason.” He grimaced again. “Guessed right away it had something to do with his brother.”

 Sarah nodded, but didn’t let him get away with anything. She never had. “There’s more. Come on, give me. You know it’s better if you talk about it as soon as you get out. Then you don’t forget anything.”

 John wrapped his arms around his chest and continued to look thoughtful. He stared up at the ceiling. “He is just unbelievably intelligent. I don’t know if I can use any of the old tricks with him. He sees through everything right away. I’m going to have to think of something new.” He lifted his hand to pull at his lower lip. 

 Before he could continue there was a knock at the door. Sarah got up and let Mycroft in. John rolled his eyes.

 “I would be interested in hearing your observations, Dr. Watson. If that is permitted, of course.”

 John just shrugged awkwardly. It’s never easy to shrug whilst lying down. He sat up and offered the other end of the couch to Mycroft.

 “I was just telling Dr. Sawyer that your brother knew who I was. He is extremely focused and organized. You should have seen the detail in the room we were in, right down to the wallpaper and the cow skull on the wall.”

 “Bison.”

 John stared at Mycroft, bemused. “What?”

 “Technically it’s a bison skull. My brother has what one would call eclectic tastes.” He said it as if he had heard a naughty word.

 “So that place was real? I have never seen a room like that.”

 “It sounds like you were in his flat on Baker Street, and yes, unfortunately, it is real.”

 John looked intrigued, then continued as if nothing had happened.

 “He mentioned he recognized me from an article he read three years ago, knew I had been in the army and that I was now a doctor. It was a little intimidating to be stripped down to the bare bones like that.”

 “He considers it a gift and a curse, Dr. Watson. He has heightened abilities to take in all information and he remembers everything unless he chooses to delete it.”

 “Yes, he mentioned something about that. Again, I don’t think you made yourself clear enough whilst describing your brother. He is much more complicated than you let on. And there’s something else in there with him.”

 Mycroft looked at John sharply, “What do you mean by that?”

 “Well he’s afraid of something. He’s afraid of what happened on the roof. Didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to talk about it and right before he threw me out his fear manifested itself as a creature, rather like a large rat. Even someone as intelligent as your brother will manipulate emotions and fears and change them into something that is more tangible, more concrete. It’s how our brains interpret data in dreams. That’s where the boogeyman comes from. Shadows in the dark.”

 “My brother doesn’t do well with emotions. Doesn’t understand them. Manipulates them in individuals he considers beneath him. Doesn’t respond appropriately to emotional situations or understand how they affect people. Thinks they are unnecessary.”

  _Hello! Pot! Let me introduce you to Kettle_ , thought John. His eye muscles were going to get a serious work out if he continued speaking with this man.

 “Well, I am going to have to try something different anyway. I have to earn his trust, which isn’t going to be easy.” He looked at Sarah. “I think we are going to have to meet halfway.”

 Sarah cocked her head, “Do you mean create a place together?” she asked. “A shelter?”

 John smiled, looking less tired than he had earlier.

 “Yep,” he grinned at her, clearly enthused with the idea.

 Mycroft cleared his throat again.

 Sarah explained, “When you have trust issues with a patient, sometimes you need to create a place that belongs to both of you, create a shelter in the dream world where you can both meet. Like neutral territory.”

 John stood up and stretched. “Let’s go.”

 Mycroft looked surprise. “Now?”

 John scoffed, “You’re the one who needs information in a hurry. I can take my time when I get in there.”

 He ushered the other two out of his office and they walked back to the lab.

 “Did your brother have a special place he liked to go when he was younger? Some place he felt safe or liked to think?”

 “Hmmm, yes actually. He rather enjoyed the orchard on the estate. He liked climbing the trees, there was a stream nearby to explore and the apiary. The bees always fascinated him.”

  _Estate? Apiary? Probably a ruddy stable and horses as well!_ was what John thought.

 What he said was, “Okay then. That gives me a place to start.”

 oOo

 John found himself back in the corridor at Bart’s, but this time he knew where he was and that he was dreaming. He didn’t need a guide this time. He was beginning to think that Bart’s was like a staging area. The place they would meet and then they could go some place else.

 Eventually, if he could convince Sherlock to trust him and to build a shelter, they could skip the preliminaries and meet there.

  _If_

 It was a big if.

 He could almost feel where Sherlock was, as if he were drawn to him, which in a sense he was. It was his brain after all. He entered the same room he’d been in earlier, but this time Sherlock was bent over a microscope. He didn’t even glance up at John.

 “Back again, I see. Nothing exciting to keep you occupied and out of my head in the real world? How dull.”

 John stood there for a moment wondering how to approach this difficult man.

 He decided with honesty.

 “Well, as I am not finished speaking with you and I have questions, I thought I’d give it another try, yeah.”

 Sherlock looked up at this. He sat back.

 “Well good luck to you then.” He clicked the ‘k’ on the end of luck.

 John titled his head to one side.

 “What are you doing?” he asked.

 Sherlock stared intently at John for a few moments. “You really wish to know, don’t you?”

 John shrugged, “Why not?”

 “It’s not as if all of this were real. It’s not a real microscope, not a real lab and the sugar sample I am looking at isn’t a real sugar sample.”

 “It is to you.” He nodded around the room. “It is in here. You can make anything real in here.”

 Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘”It is still a dream, Dr. Watson.”

 “So. And it’s John, by the way.” He paused, “I’d like to take you somewhere and show you something if I may.”

 A small smile appeared at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but his eyes were still cool and distant.

 “Trying to get me to call you by your first name will not endear me to you any quicker, Dr. Watson.”

 John shrugged again. “I can try, can’t I? Beside I am going to keep coming to see you, so it wouldn’t hurt to be on friendly terms.”

 “Ah, attempting to disarm me with sociable sentiment. I don’t do sociable and I definitely don’t do sentiment.” He did however stand up and walk toward John.

 “There is nothing of further interest in this room. I’ll go with you. If you can entertain me and keep me from being bored for the next little while, then perhaps we will talk.”

 John smiled. _Well it’s a start._

 They stepped out of the room, but instead of the corridor, they were walking in the countryside. There were gently rolling hills and grass from horizon to horizon. There was a small stream not far away, close enough they could just hear the music of the water as it ran over rocks and stones. A breeze swept in that made the grass ripple and played with the curls in Sherlock’s hair. The sky was an impossible shade of blue and filled with just enough candy floss clouds to make it picturesque, rather than a reminder of rain.

 Sherlock turned all the way around, taking in the scenery. He did not look overly impressed.

 “Where are we? This is definitely England, but not. That shade of blue does not exist anywhere and the grass is too green. The clouds are moving much too fast and although it appears to be daylight, I cannot see the sun.”

 John’s smile broadened. “Dream world, remember Mr. Genius?”

 Sherlock looked at him intently, “Ah, yes. Momentarily forgot. How odd.”

 John swept his hand around, to include the area they were standing. “This is a shelter. A place we can build together, if you wish. It’s a place where we can meet and feel safe. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to and you can add anything you like to it. It should be secure from any outside influences and most internal ones as well. Nothing can harm you here.”

 Sherlock stared at John and then looked around, more slowly this time. He seemed to smell the air. He was most displeased.

 “But I don’t like the country,” he almost whined. “I prefer the city. I am getting fresh air and sunshine all over my body.” He crossed his arms and looked like a five year old being told to go to bed early. “Why can’t we be in the city?”

 And suddenly they were standing in the middle of London with cars and taxis zooming around them, thick crowds of people going past. The smell of exhaust was almost overwhelming after the freshness of the countryside.

 John also crossed his arms and said “No.”

 And they were back in the meadow. A pair of brightly coloured birds flitted past.

 Sherlock scowled.

 John uncrossed his arms and put his hands in the pockets of the jacket he was wearing. “London is off limits. We will meet anywhere you want, but not London. Not until your ready to talk about…”

 Sherlock’s face switched from moody to angry, “I am _never_ talking about the roof.” And he moved as if he was going to push John away from him again, but John held up his hands.

 “No. No, we are not. Not until you want to. But being in London will just remind you of it, so why not go somewhere else more interesting, different. Besides,” and John gave him a sly look. “It’s not easy to keep bees in London,” and he pointed to where a set of five manmade hives appeared. The grass they were standing on became dotted with clover and dandelions.

 Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. “It’s a dream, John, of course I can keep bees in London. I can keep an elephant there if I want.” But he didn’t drag them back to the city and he was staring at the hives with yearning and desire in his bright eyes. John was happy to note that he had called him by his name.

 “Oh and don’t think we are all chummy now, just because I called you John.”

 The doctor muttered under his breath, “Bleeding mind reader.”

 “Not a mind reader. I could tell by your expression.” He began to walk toward the beehives. He turned and called back over his shoulder. “You need to learn how to observe, Dr. Watson.”

 John sighed and followed the taller man over to the hives.

 Sherlock spent a good amount of time watching the comings and goings of the little insects. John decided to make himself comfortable and lay down upon the grass and picked at some nearby clover.

 Eventually he was joined by a Sherlock who was attempting to continue to appear discontent.

 “If you are trying not to look pleased about this you are not succeeding,” he smiled warmly at the lanky figure stretched out beside him.

 A sardonic look was tossed his way. “No need to be so full of yourself. I just hadn’t really explored the possibilities of what one could do in a dream before.”

 They were silent for a moment or two.

 “How come you can create things? It _is_ my mind after all. Why did you get to pick where we put this shelter?”

 John thought for a moment. “Well, yes it is your mind and ultimately anything I create won’t be as long lasting as say something you create, but because we are joined together, it enables you to see what I create as well. Do you understand?”

 Sherlock nodded, looking thoughtful.

 “I picked because I know how, but we can change it if you want.”

 Sherlock looked almost alarmed by the thought. “No. This is fine. I was just wondering. My dreams are rather mundane and everyday.”

 “What, no exciting or scary dreams?”

 His expression was almost bewildered and that young, vulnerable look popped up on his face again. Since they had come here, he appeared younger and more helpless than he had back at Bart’s. “No. I don’t sleep much and when I do, I dream very little. I spend more time organizing my mind palace than I do dreaming.”

 An almost wistful look appeared on his face.

 John felt sorry for him. “You are here now. Why don’t you make the most of it? What do you want to do?”

 The nonexistent sun went behind some clouds and the sky grew slightly darker. The breeze turned chill.

 John sat up, wondering what he had said that had changed Sherlock’s mood.

 Sherlock meanwhile was looking down at the grass. “How long?”

 “How long what?”

 “Oh don’t play dumb with me doctor! How long? How long have I been unconscious and how long will I stay that way?”

 John looked at Sherlock’s face trying to judge his reactions and emotions. “If I tell you, will you get upset? I mean to say, it comes awfully close to what you wish to avoid discussing.”

 The sky darkened imperceptibly as did Sherlock’s expression.

 “Mind games, Dr. Watson? Do you really think that will work? It is, after all, my mind.”

 John continued to look at Sherlock, steadily.

 “Oh fine!” and he flung himself back so he was lying on the grass. The sky brightened again and the breeze turned warmer. He closed his eyes against the glare.

 John leaned back as well.

 Sherlock cracked one eyelid and scowled. “Well?”

 “Oh sorry,” John replied. “I was waiting to see if you were finished sulking.”

 Sherlock huffed.

 “You’ve been unconscious three days. You are in a coma. You have a broken leg and various cuts and contusions. You got off pretty well, considering.” He left it at that. If Sherlock wanted to know more, he would ask.

 It remained quiet. John just lay there enjoying the relative peace and the warm breeze.

 Sherlock sat up abruptly.

 “How do you know?”

 Trying to keep up with the rapid-fire shifts in conversation he was experiencing was a lesson in itself.

 “How do I know what?” he couldn’t help but grin, for on Sherlock’s face there was an eager, expectant, almost puppy dog expression. It seemed in spite of the fact that he had an amazing memory and was highly intelligent, he had a great thirst for more input. Hence the never ending questions.

 “How do you know you are dreaming?”

 “Oh. Well first of all I have had a lot of practice and training and then I have an anchor.” He pulled an apple out of his jacket pocket.

 He held it to to Sherlock. “Don’t eat it,” he only half joked. “An anchor is an object I pick that reminds me when I see it I am in a dream. Why? Do you want one? You seem to be aware most of the time that you are dreaming.”

 For a long time, Sherlock didn’t say anything. He handed the apple back to John who put it away. He picked at the grass.

 John was just beginning to think he wasn’t going to speak at all, when he did.

 “I am afr…concerned that if I stay here too long I might forget I am dreaming.”

 The slip was ignored. “Is it so bad not knowing, you know, just dreaming?”

 Sherlock didn’t say anything, just looked at John with his incredible eyes, eyes that didn’t miss a trick.

 “What do you want to pick?”

 “It can be anything?”

 “It can be anything,” confirmed John.

 “My Grandfather had a watch once. I was quite fond of it. When he died I wanted to keep it, but it was given to my cousin instead.”

 A lovely old-fashioned pocket watch appeared in Sherlock’s up turned hand. A look of bemused wonder momentarily flashed across his face before he slipped the watch into his trouser pocket.

 “John, I should very much like to stay here for a while longer with you, if that’s all right.”

 John smiled, a small tendril of relief crept into his heart. _Breakthrough_.

 “As long as you wish.”

 oOo

 “And he’s coming back up out of it,” Mike was busy checking the monitors. “Nice and normal. Looks like he was able to stay the whole time.”

 Sarah hurried down to unhook John. She straightened him out and helped him sit up. He rubbed the back of his neck.

 “Better?” she asked.

 “Much. He was a bit difficult in the beginning, but I was able to take him to the place I picked and intrigued him with bees.” He smiled slightly and drank the offered glass of water.

 Mycroft made his way over.

 “I have earned a small amount of trust with him and left him picking out things to add to the shelter. He seems very unaware of molding dream reality, almost like he hasn’t daydreamed or used his imagination before, or at least not in a very long time. He was almost overwhelmed by it at first, but once he knew how he got the hang of it pretty quick.”

 Mycroft was clearly out of his comfort zone again.  “I suppose. Things like daydreams and imagination were not deemed worthwhile and considered a waste of time. Once we reached an appropriate age we were discouraged to play or have what you would consider to be free time.”

 John now felt even more sorry for Sherlock.

 And perhaps a little for the man standing beside him.

 “Sherlock has the type of brain that could have done with a little imagination,” said John. “I might have to teach him to have fun in there again.” And he grinned cheekily at Mycroft.

 “Do you think that’s wise, Dr. Watson? Do you really have the time?”

 “I know it is hard to conceive, but I just spent 3 days in there with your brother. We made a lot of progress and I came really close to being able to start asking questions. If this keeps up in another session or two and I may be able to get you some answers. Right now however, my people need sleep and the medical team needs to check on your brother. I suggest you go home, get some rest yourself and come back in the morning. We will start again tomorrow.”

 Sarah helped John off of the table.

 He walked over and laid a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “Sleep well, Sherlock. I’ll be back in the morning. I promise.”

 He left the lab, still noticeably limping.

 Sarah unhooked Sherlock from the EEG machine but left everything else connected. Mike shut down nonessential equipment and by the time he was finished the medical team had arrived.

 Mycroft went to his brother before they took over and whispered in his ear.

 “Good night, brother. Safe dreams.”

 oOo

 John let himself into his flat. Even though it felt like he had spent most of the night asleep he was exhausted. It was mentally draining working with patients this way and having to always be either in control or at least alert all the time. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in a nice normal, non-drug induced state, and dream without controls.

 He removed his trousers and button up shirt and crawled into bed wearing his vest and boxers, too tired to change into anything else. Sarah would have his head if she knew he had gone to bed without eating. He knew it was a bad idea. He needed to replenish his energy and he was liable to wake up hungry in a few hours.

 He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

  _He was back at the meadow, but this time he was unaware he was dreaming. He stood talking with a tall, angular man. They were laughing about something, something ridiculous. Suddenly, they were running through the streets of London, chasing someone or some_ thing _, chased it into a dark alley. It turned back toward them with red glowing eyes and hissed. John tried to push the other man out of the way but before he could, they were unexpectedly standing on the roof of Bart’s and the man and the Thing were locked in a struggle near the edge of the roof. John cried out and tried to get to his side but everything slowed down and everything was out of reach. John pulled a gun out from the waistband of his trousers. He hadn’t fired a gun in years, but some things you don’t forget. He aimed at the Thing and shot it. The Thing disappeared over the edge. John leaned over the rooftop to see what had happened. As he bent over a paw-like hand with sharp claws for fingers reached up and grabbed his wrist. It scratched and clawed at him. Holding tight it dragged him to the edge of the roof and as it pulled him over, it whispered in a harsh sibilant voice,  “You can’t have him, Johnny boy. He’s mine.”_

 John woke up breathing hard, aware he had yelled in his sleep, the sound of it still ringing in the air.

 He looked at his left hand, the hand the creature had grabbed and it was still aching. There was a slight tremor.

 He lay back on his pillows and willed his heart to stop racing so fast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Promise of Love (is Hard to Ignore)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay – I thought that I would have had more time this week to write this one up, but RL interfered – that & the fact that my energy/effort quotient is nil lately:P Also this is a long chapter. Any objections? I thought not!
> 
> Thanks again for all the interest in this story! I am so excited!
> 
> Yeah – a little dark – but I mean really –we are talking about Sherlock’s head – so what were you expecting. TDA & Lucy – no smut yet!
> 
> Don’t own. Don’t expect too, but lunch with the boys would be nice:)

The sun hadn’t even made the suggestion of an appearance yet.

 John crawled out of bed the next morning, a lot earlier than he had planned, even knowing he was going to the lab first thing.

 After the nightmare of the evening before, his rest had been interrupted on a continuous basis with a series of images and half snatched conversations, every single one having Sherlock swirling through them. He’d never slipped back into a full, deep sleep and was paying for it this morning.

  _Good thing my job requires me to be asleep_ , he thought ruefully.

 He hadn’t been this tired since he’d helped a genetic scientist who had been experiencing nightmares due to her work. For a good while after, John had dreams of a giant, glowing rabbit holding him captive in a cage in a darkened lab. Some patients caused more bleed over than others, particularly the intriguing, interesting ones.

 And Sherlock was definitely that.

 He was still limping this morning, but not as obviously and his hand was trembling slightly as he pulled down a mug for tea. It wasn’t totally unusual to continue to experience the after effects of physical manifestations. The drugs stayed in his system for a while.

He gave himself a shake and puttered around gathering materials for an early breakfast, very late supper.

 He turned the telly on for something to do. He decided to watch the news. He normally could care less what was happening in the real world; so much of his focus was wrapped up in dreams. He didn’t always want aspects of reality invading the dream world, but he was curious to see if there was anything about Sherlock on the news. It sounded from the conversations he’d had with Mycroft that there might be, that Sherlock was well known.

 

An early edition newscast was on, one that was mostly replaying pieces from the night before. He munched away at his breakfast whilst it made noise in the background. His curiosity was rewarded.

  _“…still awaiting an answer from the police regarding the tragic suicide of Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. In a twist of epic proportions and something usually only seen on the telly, Sherlock Holmes was discovered to be a fraud. Sources close to the police believe he killed himself in remorse. The police are interested in contacting Richard Brook, the actor whom it is believed Holmes hired to be criminal mastermind, James Moriarty, in order to prop up his extraordinary abilities. If anyone has information regarding Richard Brook and his current location, you are urged to contact the police. Now over to the weather…”_

 John had stopped eating during the piece and then he stopped listening, a tumult of thoughts plummeting through his head.

  _He’s covering it up! Why the hell is Mycroft letting the police and the media believe Sherlock is dead? Why does the police not know where Sherlock really is and who the hell is this Richard Brook fellow? Dammit, more secrets and lies. Does he not realize this was only going to hurt Sherlock in so many ways?_

 John, wondering what kind of power it took to orchestrate such a massive media cover up, rubbed his face in frustration and quickly stood up. No longer interested in eating, he took his dishes out to the kitchen, quickly showered and dressed, ready to go and stare down Mycroft Holmes once more. Maybe this time he’d get some answers, although he was beginning to seriously doubt it.

 oOo

 John entered the lab quietly to find Mycroft in the same position he had assumed in Sherlock’s hospital room. It didn’t look like he had gone home at all.

 Mycroft looked up as John came closer to the bed.

 “Dr. Watson? You are here earlier than you had originally intended. And why would that be? Let’s see. You had difficulty sleeping last night and woke early.” He nodded to himself. “You have also been watching the news. How unfortunate for you. Now you have questions, more questions.” Mycroft almost grimaced as he tugged on his waistcoat, attempting to get it to behave and lie more precisely on his frame.

 John stood silently for a moment, head tilted, as he attempted to understand the man in front of him.

 “I am beginning to wonder if you do, in fact, wish me to help your brother or if this is just some elaborate game. I am beginning to see why Sherlock is angry and upset when you are mentioned. Tell me Mr. Holmes, do you care for your brother at all?”

 “Caring is not an advantage, Dr. Watson.”

 "Well isn’t that a happy load of the biggest pile of shit I have ever been fortunate to wade in.” Mycroft almost glared at John but curiosity was outweighing any insult.

 He stood and indicated he wished somewhere more private to conduct this conversation.

 They made their way to John’s office, neither saying anything.

 Once they reached his office, John took the chair at the desk and Mycroft sat upon the couch, cleared his throat and began.

 He told John the story of two men, both exceedingly clever, both manipulative, one working for the forces of good, even though he was reviled because of his character and his attitude, the other working on the side of evil, a consulting criminal. Even though most of what Mycroft related was delivered in dry tones, without much in the way of embellishments, John was riveted, enthralled. Here was the real Sherlock, consulting detective, gifted genius. Someone who because people were looking for him to fail, due to jealousy or disbelief, walked right into a trap and was out maneuvered by a dark and malevolent personality. Mycroft told John everything he knew or suspected.

 “We know that Richard Brook does not exist. He is an alias used by Moriarty. I do not know why Sherlock jumped off the roof. I have my suspicions. I do not know who else has been threatened but again I have my suspicions. We have CCTV tapes on the roof showing Moriarty and Sherlock and it appears they were threatening each other. We know Sherlock approached the edge of the roof several times and we know Moriarty seems to have killed himself, but when we searched the roof, there was no body and we have nothing to show what happened. Someone was able to erase the footage of the time after Sherlock jumped up to when my people arrived on the roof. We have no proof, not even my brother’s mobile. I believe it is necessary to continue the illusion that Sherlock jumped and died, until I can find out why he did it. Then perhaps I can clear his name. My brother, for all his faults, for all his quirks and mannerisms, is a great man. Something happened on that roof that I believe turned him into a good one.”

 He looked out the window of John’s office, thinking for a moment. “Moriarty threatened someone or perhaps more than one person, perhaps goading Sherlock into jumping or his friends would die. These people, my brother’s only friends, include a detective inspector, Sherlock’s landlady and a young pathologist who was instrumental in helping Sherlock set up this ruse of faking his death. The first two are being watched and the third is under protective custody whilst we debrief her concerning her involvement. Moriarty was highly involved in several terrorist activities and crimes. I need to be sure there isn’t more to this story. My brother and I were not speaking towards the end of this farce.”

 John carefully scrutinized Mycroft’s face, “Aren’t you worried about a threat? Aren’t you concerned that you might be a piece to be used against your brother?”

 Mycroft’s mouth quivered a little as if trying to decide if he was going to laugh or not, but then it pulled itself together and the lip didn’t disobey again.

 “Me? Certainly not.”

 “Why?” John asked softly.

 “Because Sherlock does not care for me, so therefore Moriarty would not use me in such a fashion. Moriarty can not hurt me because of Sherlock.”

 “But he already has.” And John nodded his head in Sherlock’s direction. “You can lie to yourself as much as you wish Mr. Holmes, but you care more for Sherlock than you wish to admit.”

 Mycroft tried to look affronted but John didn’t buy it.

 Then he sighed and inclined his head in agreement.

 “Dr. Watson, it is not simply for the reasons I gave you earlier about national security and saving lives. These are all true, but it is for the sake of my brother that I have asked you to do this. Moriarty deliberately set my brother up, for revenge, for fun, because he was bored. Let me ask you, what would you do for your sister if the positions were reversed?”

 John looked sharply at Mycroft. “You know exactly what I did do for my sister and you know the result. Do not bring that up again.”

 He looked at the floor gathering his emotions and his thoughts.

 “Well it’s about bloody time you got the bottom of this.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps now I can get some work done with Sherlock. Right. So this Moriarty fellow, did he happen to have an Irish accent?”

 Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Yes. He was Irish. Why?” Curiosity once more replaced the cool veneer.

 “Because he is haunting your brother’s dreams and therefore mine. Moriarty is the nightmare in the dark. A shadow, a bit of Sherlock’s fears, bled into my dreams last night. It spoke with an Irish accent. Warned me off.”

 Mycroft nodded slowly, for the first time uncertain what to say.

 “Well,” said John, “I guess I had better go and get some prep work completed with Sherlock. I’ll be going in for most of the day today, all being well.”

 He stopped, just before he left his office, “Unless there is anything else you have neglected to tell me.” It was more of a statement than a question.

 Mycroft gave him a wintery smile, “I’ll let you know.”

 John half grinned, “Careful, Mr. Holmes. I might start to like you, if you keep up all this approachability.”

 He closed the door behind him.

 Mycroft sighed. He was beginning to suspect he was rather going to end up liking John as well.

 oOo

 John found himself in the lab at Bart’s without any fanfare, but this time it was empty. He looked around for Sherlock, pocketing the apple he found on the counter.

He smiled a little, same place as the first visit.

 As he walked toward the door, figuring Sherlock was waiting for him in the meadow, he heard the sound of music. It took him a moment to realize it was a violin. He remembered there had been one sitting in the dream flat.

 The sound was louder as he opened the door and stepped into the meadow. John didn’t recognize the tune but knew it was something classical. It was being played very well. He knew that sometimes people could do things in dreams that they couldn’t in real life, like fly for example, but he suspected that Sherlock could actually play the violin. The Holmes brothers looked like they came from a family that would insist its members learn to play an instrument.

 He walked over the grass, the ground feeling pleasantly yielding under his feet. It would seem that Sherlock was in a good mood due to the perpetually spring season tasting the air and the vivid light to everything. There seem to be a slight tinge to the sky as if suggesting that the sun was getting close to late afternoon rather than the early morning sun of his previous trip here.

 As he crested a hill, he came upon an interesting sight.

 He found Sherlock in the meadow, but it was a meadow that had never seen real life. It looked like someone had taken the furniture from the flat and had dumped it amongst the wildflowers, grass and bees. The bison skull (not cow) was hanging in the air, simply suspended there. As he came closer, he noticed that Sherlock had also provided the fireplace, the two chairs, the couch and as oddly placed as the skull, a mirror over the fireplace. And like his first trip, despite the warm air, there was a fire burning cheerfully. It was more ambiance that heating source.

 The weirdest thing was the tree growing right next to the fireplace. John thought it might be a fruit tree, perhaps an apple, but he really didn’t know the difference between the types. At first, he felt oddly touched to think it might be an apple, even though he knew that Sherlock liked climbing trees when he was younger. The tree was in bloom and John could see little bees buzzing around the flowers. Perhaps it had nothing to do with him after all. It was just there for the bees. The original flare of emotion he’d had when he thought it was in regard to him, suddenly disappeared and John felt oddly hollow.

 Approaching Sherlock, he took note of the detective’s eyes. They were shut with a look of fierce concentration and surprisingly an emotion like pleasure or perhaps tenderness, flowed across Sherlock’s face. Love of the music perhaps. An emotion that Sherlock, no doubt, would not be comfortable expressing to just anyone, but was presented to the music, as if a gift. Wonder entered John’s chest and took up residence.

 He stopped and attended more carefully, more clearly to the content and the passions of the music. He felt tightness and a strange tingling in his chest as he really listened. Music had always moved him but this was different. This was special. It spoke to him, touched him deep inside; emotions coming from the man whom he knew had difficulty expressing them.

 But not here, not now.

 Fear was underneath, not the strongest note in the song, surprise was also there and an intimation of friendship, perhaps a free offering, a hand held out, waiting to be clasped. But woven throughout was simply joy. Joy at being in the meadow, perhaps or at something else. John wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be connected to his arrival. He was rather surprised at his own reactions to the music and the underlying, unspoken message.

 Sherlock finished the piece and John, dragged out of his thoughts, moved forward once more. A concentrated gaze followed his progress. There was definitely more openness and easiness on his face than previously. There may have even been the hint of a smile.

 As John came closer Sherlock’s look changed to one of sharp intensity and then a small frown graced his lips.

 “Why on earth are you limping, John? Were you hurt? Why does that manifest itself here? If injuries manifest themselves in dreams why do I appear uninjured?”

 John laughed “Whoa, one question at a time.”

 Sherlock pouted, “I have been waiting for you for a long time and I was beginning to get bored.” He carefully placed the violin in its case.

 “So if I answer your questions you won’t be?”

 Sherlock smirked, “Oh I’m quite sure I’ll be bored eventually, but you will have given me something to think about for a time. New data is always interesting. New data about you John, more so.”

 John looked surprised, “About me? Whatever for?”

 Sherlock rubbed his hands together, briskly and with something akin to glee. “Because John, you are fascinating. You are a puzzle. So many layers. Rather like an onion.”

 John laughed again “Well as long as you don’t peel me back to find all of my secrets.”

 In that way he sometimes moved in the dream world, Sherlock was suddenly in John’s space again, staring down at him. John got the feeling that that was exactly what Sherlock was attempting to do with the invasion of his personal space, peel him back, reveal his core, his centre.

 “Why are you limping, John?” he repeated.

 He hesitated. He knew he was limping because of what had happened in the first dream. To John, the rat was Sherlock’s fear and a little, perhaps of his self-preservation, trying to protect Sherlock, preventing John from getting too close. He didn’t want Sherlock to get upset, especially as he just got here. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would see the rat the same way. He didn’t want him to either be afraid of it or to make the fear more tangible.

 “Oh, don’t be idiotic. Whatever you tell me won’t upset me. I promise. I am not planning on getting rid of you just yet. It feels like forever since you were here last.”

 John chose to ignore the questions for now, to see what Sherlock would do. He took off his jacket, slipping the apple from his pocket as he did so and placed it on the coffee table, next to Sherlock’s grandfather’s watch. Sherlock watched with interest. The apple and the watch looked like they belonged together. As if they were part of a still life painting.

  _Which_ _ties in with my dream analogy of dreams being like art. This surely does look very Dali like, what with the skull floating in the air._

 “Like what you’ve done to the place,” John said. “Not into walls?”

 A shrug. “I am experimenting. I am attempting to see if I enjoy being out in the fresh air.  I still think this is all rather pointless as it is not real.”

 John sighed. “That’s the idea of dreams, Sherlock. Using your imagination, pretending.”

 Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 “I thought dreams were ways your brain organized sensory input from the day’s experiences and attempting to interpret the data. That and your subconscious trying to tell you something.” He almost sneered the last part, in disbelief. “John, you are deliberately avoiding answering my question, why are you limping and now that I look closer, why is your hand trembling? It wasn’t before.”

 John looked at Sherlock steadily.

 “The first time we met during a Merge, you took me to your flat. I brought up things you did not wish to talk about. A large, rat like creature came out from under your chair, from your subconscious I suppose, and bit me. I believe it to be a manifestation of both your fear and your desire to protect yourself.”

 John held his breath waiting to see if he would have a melt down on his hands.

 Hands steepled, Sherlock withdrew momentarily from the room, not physically, not that anything _was_ physical here, but emotionally.

 John glanced around but the day still seemed as bright and sunny as before.

 “That is ridiculous. You are telling me you have an unsteady leg, generated from a creature purportedly created from my psyche that is causing you to have what basically amounts to a psychosomatic limp. It’s in your head, John.”

 John sat there speechless for a minute and then he began to giggle. He began laughing so hard he couldn’t breath and tears sprang out of his eyes. Sherlock simply sat, bemusement playing on his features. He almost looked patient whilst he waited for John to pull himself together. Finally able to sit up, John wiped his eyes and took several deep breaths, giggles spurted out occasionally.

 Sherlock merely lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.

 “It’s not really just in my head, Sherlock. It’s in your head as well. Struck me as funny!”

 Sherlock started chuckling, a rich deep, throaty laugh. John set off giggling some more. Sherlock started laughing harder as he took in the sight of John, who he had taken to be fairly serious, practically curled up with glee, uncontrollably snickering over the idea that his unreal limp was simply in his head.

 Pulling themselves together, Sherlock asked, “And the hand?” A smile still played upon his mouth.

 John sobered up, quickly. The limp was safe, apparently, but how would Sherlock react to the idea of this Moriarty creature, subconscious manifestation showing up in John’s dream? This was a real fear that could take over.

 Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.” He said, his rich voice becoming darker in its implications.

 Looking at him steadily, John said, “You need to know that occasionally, what you dream, what you experience here, between us, enters into my dreams in the real world.” He gathered his courage, worried that this might not be good. He chose his words carefully, telling the truth of his dream, but skipped the details. He would leave out the roof. “I dreamt last night the same creature was attacking you. I shot it and it grabbed my hand and clawed at me.”

 John stopped and waited. Sherlock sat more still, if that was possible. The light surrounding them darkened but not as much as the last time the detective had rowed with him.

 “Did this creature say anything to you? I see that it did. You were surprised and perhaps frightened of the creature’s intent.” Sherlock’s voice became quieter. “What did it say to you, John?”

 John swallowed. “Sherlock, I…”

 And again Sherlock was in his space, leaning into him, so close he could see that the detective’s eyes weren’t really silver as he originally thought but an amalgam of green and blue. A fanciful idea of the silver appearing as if a display of Sherlock’s intellect, distracted him momentarily. John felt a shiver run down his spine and his mouth became suddenly dry. He didn’t understand what was happening. The gaze placed upon him was penetrating and somewhat frightening.

 Sherlock blinked. “John. What did it…what did _he_ say to you?”

 “What do you mean by ‘he’ Sherlock?”

 Sherlock simply stared.

 John attempted to swallow once again, “You can’t have him Johnny boy. He’s mine.”

 Sherlock stood up quickly, the look on his face was as if his ideas and thoughts were confirmed rather than the fear and anger John had been certain was going to be predominant. Not that it wasn’t there. It was. But Sherlock was more interested in being right. The fear translated into the fire going out. Strangely the light seemed to turn more orange, as if nearing sunset

 

He swooped down into John’s space again. The satisfaction now gone and the anger back.

 “You will not allow him into your head, John. Do you understand me?”

  _Perhaps not in control after all._

There was a scary possessiveness in his face that John was becoming aware of.  Sherlock had been badly shaken and he wasn’t taking it well that Moriarty or the idea of Moriarty was in John’s head.

 He spoke softly, as if to a wild animal, a skittish one, “You know it’s not really Moriarty, Sherlock.”

 Eyes narrowed, “I don’t care, John. He can’t have you. You are in my head. You are mine.”

  _Okay, that’s enough at that._

 “I do not belong to you or anyone else. Do you hear me?”

 Sherlock’s eyes continued to burn through John. “I hear you John, but he also needs to know you do not belong to him. I cannot save you, too.”

 John sat up straighter as Sherlock backed away abruptly and sat down in one of the chairs, his legs crossed, the bottom one jiggling.

 The doctor took a deep breath, ready for the plunge. But he couldn’t ask him straight out what the hell he meant by that.

  _Change of tactics._

 “So what do you do for fun in the real world, Sherlock?”

 Sherlock gave him a scathing look. He was not fooled.

 “I solve crimes the police cannot.”

 “Oh? I know a little bit about your work, but I'd like to hear your take on it.”

 In spite of his annoyance with the doctor, he became more animated and began, haltingly at first and then warming up, to tell John about some of the cases he’d been involved in.

 John was suitable impressed and Sherlock was suitable flattered at John’s obvious admiration.

 After a time, John felt it was safe to ask the next question in pursuit of attempting to find out the things Mycroft needed to know.

 “So does anyone help you? Is there anyone who you can talk to about these cases? Do you have a girlfriend?”

 “Not my area.”

 “Oh. A boyfriend then? Which is fine by the way.”

 “I know it’s fine.”

 “Oh, okay then,” John felt his cheeks begin to burn. “Ummm, so you are unattached then?”

 “What in gods’ name are you driving at? I don’t date!” he said the word as if it were a communicable disease. “I am only interested in The Work!” There was however a small flicker of his eyes in John’s direction, but it was almost too quick to be seen. “Look, I am flattered that you are trying to ‘chat me up’, but...’

 “No! No! Not going there, thank you! Look that would be highly unprofessional of me to even…”

 “Oh, but it’s perfectly fine for you to go traipsing through my head trying to figure out why the hell I was up on the ROOF when I clearly don’t and can’t talk about it.”

  _Bingo!_

 Sherlock sat back as he realized what he said; he worried at his lower lip with his teeth.

 “What happened on the roof?” John asked gently.

 Sherlock crossed his arms.

 “What happened that you feel you have to protect someone? Or perhaps there’s more than one person?”

 Sherlock looked at John, anguish leaking out of his eyes.

 “I can’t tell you. If I tell they will get hurt or …”

 “Or what?”

 “Or die.”

 He waited. They both waited.

 “If I am here, unconscious and my brother knows, then that means I failed.”

 John thought for a minute. “What if I told you, you hadn’t failed?’

 Sherlock titled his head, “What do you mean?”

 “Your brother hasn’t let on that you are alive. He has somehow convinced the media that you did die, that your jump succeeded.”

 Perhaps the beginning of hope appeared in Sherlock’s eyes.

 “They think I died?”

 “Yes, it looks that way.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Yes. Why?’

 But Sherlock didn’t answer he jumped up, his mood lightening and with it the fire snapped back into existence.

 “If they think I am dead then when I wake up and get out of this god forsaken existence I can do what I need to.”

 “What do you need to do?”

Sherlock whirled around. He looked at John strangely. He hesitated and then a new expression replaced the hope. Steely determination.

 “No. I can’t tell you. It has to be secret.”

 John stood up and strode over to where Sherlock was standing.

 “Why? Why does it have to be a secret? What are you afraid of? If you tell me I can help you. I can help you with what ever this is. Please let me help you!”

 “No one can help me. I have to do this by myself.”

 John stood back. He nodded, as of in understanding. “I know you are afraid. I know you think telling me is going to hurt your friends, but this doesn’t have to be a burden of one. If you tell me, I can tell your brother. He can protect your friends.”

 “But what if no one can?”

 “Who is it, Sherlock? Who is this person that has so much power over you? Who are you afraid of? Naming your fear gives you power over it.”

 His visage darkened, “You know who it is, John. He’s visited your dreams. Has Mycroft not filled you in on every little detail, every little thing about my life? Has he not told you things to help you in what ever it is you are attempting to do?” His expression turned shrewd. “What is it you are doing anyway, John? Why are you here?”

 “I am trying to help you.”

 “You keep saying that, but I am beginning to have my doubts.”

 The wind picked up and the sky leaned more toward sunset, filled with orange, red, green and deep purple streaks. A Halloween sky. John could almost hear the skitter of dead leaves, even though a short while ago the tree had been in spring and the air summer.

 The weirdness of dreams.

 Sherlock crossed his arms and sulked.

 John turned and went back to the table where he picked up his apple and slipped it back into his pocket.

 “What are you doing? Where do you think you are going?”

 “I have obviously upset you. I thought I’d go for a walk and let you cool down.”

 Sherlock straightened, “I’m not upset. I just don’t want you prying.”

 John merely turned and walked toward the tree. He paused there, admiring the beauty it.

 Sherlock hesitated and walked over to where he stood. John was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

 “I brought it here for you,” a quiet voice at his side.

 “What?” John whipped his head around to look at the other man. He felt a burst of pleasure enter his chest. He had guessed correctly, the tree was for him.

 “I thought you’d like it. It’s an apple tree. I figured if one apple anchored you, more would be beneficial, safer.

 John beamed at Sherlock, “Why thank you! I believe that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me in a dream.”

 The two men smiled at each other, Sherlock relaxed once more, his mood calm.

 “Sherlock,” John began tentatively. “I am really and truly here to help you. Yes, your brother wants information as well but he isn’t doing it to be interfering. He honestly is trying to help you and to help others. He can’t do it without your knowledge, without what’s up here.” And John reached up and tapped Sherlock on the head.

 Sherlock looked down. His voice became diminished. “I’m afraid, John.”

 “What are you afraid of?”

 A voice came from behind them.

 “Me, Johnny boy!”

 oOo

 Mike looked puzzled, “Sarah, are you getting these readings? John’s heart rate just spiked, respiration is increasing. I am concerned about some other indicators here as well. Good lord, look at his brainwaves! That is very, very wrong!” A note of panic entered Mike’s normally cheerful voice.

 Sarah looked over at Mike’s monitors and back to Sherlock’s reading. They too indicated increased heart rate and respiration. The brainwave activity indicated a nightmare in progress. Her face paled. “What the hell is happening in there?”

 oOo

 “Hello, Sherlock. Good to see you again. So glad to find you here, you and your little playmate. Can’t get to your other playmates. Dear, big brother Mikey has them all locked up and protected. But how thoughtful. You’ve given me a new one to threaten, to put the fear of me into you! Oh wait! I’m already here!” The man, Moriarty, grimaced a smile at Sherlock. A ‘hale and well met’ smile, but it did not reach the cold, dead eyes, eyes with a gleam of red in them.

 John could clearly see the other man, the version of Moriarty in Sherlock’s head. It had turned dark at the sound of Moriarty’s voice, a reflection of Sherlock’s mood, of his fear, but Moriarty brought his own light with him. It wasn’t the warm light of a summer afternoon or a pleasant fire, the light that surrounded Sherlock and the meadow. It was the light of a fell star or decaying fungi, poisoned luminosity.

 “What’s the matter, Sherlock baby? Cat got your tongue?”

 He came up closer, in John’s space the same way Sherlock did, but there was nothing friendly in his gaze. The same intelligence but it was skewed and insane. He suddenly reached forward a snatched the apple from John’s pocket.

 “Well, well Johnny, what’s this? An apple? Why on earth would you bring something to eat in a dream? What’s that? It’s not to be eaten?” He feigned shock and surprise, his face contorting through different characterizations of each emotion.

 “It’s an anchor? Is that right? I wonder what would happen to you if I took a big, juicy bite of your anchor? I am mightily hungry, my dear.” And he leered at John, but he gave Moriarty nothing to work with. He kept his face impassive and free of emotion. He had no idea what would transpire if something happened to his anchor. No one had threatened him like this before. Not since Jamieson and that had been rather straight forward, not this slow torture from a madman.

 Sherlock shouted out “NO!” as Moriarty open his mouth and bit down into the apple.

 

 

 

 


	5. The Chance Wasn’t Getting Any Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there I go again leaving you with a cliffhanger in the last chapter! And here’s another one at the end of this chapter:) Yeah I know. Me too!
> 
> I have super exciting, happy, happy news. My dear, wonderful, amazing, talented friend TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot is working on an absolutely beautiful illustration inspired by this fic in the style of Salvador Dali. I am so totally blown away! I have linked the picture on her blog on my fanfiction profile & hopefully I have loaded it correctly in this chapter on AO3 (my penname is the same) - see at the end!! I cannot thank her enough! She is truly a gifted artist & a gifted writer. Go check out her stories!!
> 
> Thanks to Sherlocked.For.Life who suggested listening to Zara Larsson’s Uncover for inspiration for this fic! It is an amazing song! Thanks!
> 
> *whispers –‘Guess what? I don’t own!’

Sherlock barely heard the word “NO!” as it tore out of his mouth. He knew, he knew on so many levels, exactly what Moriarty’s intentions were from the moment he showed up, he knew John was in danger. John, who in such a short period of time, who he had not even ‘met’ outside of dreams, had become so much more important, so much more real, so much _more_ than the three people Sherlock _had_ jumped for. If he had known John before the events on the roof of Bart’s he would have unhesitatingly jumped for him as well.

 He watched John’s straight-backed, calm acceptance, saw Moriarty bite into the apple, watched as John buckled to his knees as he clutched his head, pain veil-wrapped over his face.

  _It’s not real, it’s not real. It can’t hurt, it’s not real. It’s just a dream,_ buzzed mosquito-like through his mind.

 But apparently it could. He thought quickly about what John had told him concerning his dream-induced injuries. _Was this the same? What kind of damage could this do to John?_

 Sherlock stepped forward to help, unaware of having moved. Jim raised a finger and tutted, “Uh, uh, uh! Now Sherlock. We don’t want anything else happening to the dear Doctor.”

 He lifted the apple up to his mouth feigning another bite. Sherlock stopped where he was, immobile, trying to appear indifferent to John’s plight, but knowing he’d already handed Moriarty too much information. He could hear John gasping for breath; see out of the corner of his eye his hands still clutching his head.

 Sherlock reacted the only way he knew how to in this time and place. The skies, already beginning to darken, blackened further, the wind picked up, night descended rapidly, swiftly, reflecting the shadowed aspects of his soul. Clouds flew across the star strewn sky, chasing each other. There was no moonlight in Sherlock’s world.

 Moriarty’s graveyard grin increased.

 “Temper, temper, my dear. You are not helping the situation. I suggest you calm down or I may get angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.” He chuckled, almost pleasantly, at his own humour. “Of course, it just shows once more how much we are alike, how much you are like me. Genius, temper, being bored with plain ordinary people.” He bent down and ruffled John’s hair as he simultaneously tossed the apple up and down in one hand. He glanced down at the man he had tormented, who was lying curled up on the ground and he sneered. It was as if he could bruise John with that look more than he already had, bruise him, tear at him as he had the apple.

 He whispered in the prone man’s ear, “He’s just using you, John. It’s what we do.”

 The wind whipped up and the tree, John’s tree, bent and swayed. Loose papers lying about the ‘flat’ danced and spun through the air. A small part of Sherlock’s mind idly wondered what would happen to the information contained on those sheets, would it disappear into unknown recesses of his memory, would it be misplaced and driftless, would he lose it the way normal ordinary people lost names, dates, reminiscences?

 John meanwhile, seemingly revenant insubstantial, struggled to his feet. He was attempting to catch Sherlock’s eye, still engaging in the newly initiated war with the consulting criminal. Sherlock glanced at John, who was mouthing something at him. He caught it on the second try.

 “ _Send him away_.”

Sherlock eyed John askance, trying to wear his puzzlement shrouded, hoping Moriarty wouldn’t guess. Locking eyes with the doctor seemed to open up a new way of communicating that hadn’t been possible with anyone except perhaps Mycroft. He could read John’s thoughts easily, by reading his movements, his expressions. Perhaps sharing a brain had something to do with it but he felt it was other, deeper, immutable. He knew John meant he had the ability to send Moriarty away. It was his head, his space, his refuge.

 No.

 His and John’s.

 This shelter they had built, together.

 “Leave,” Sherlock drawled as if he were bored, his eyes flickered toward John.

  _More forcefully_ , the other man’s eyes seem to be saying.

 Sherlock imitated the doctor, stood soldier straight and roared, “NOW!”

 Moriarty smirked a farewell and pocketed the remains of the apple. There was a whisper of _Remember Sherlock! You belong to me!_ on the air as he disappeared like a fragment of a bad dream, but the memory did not vanish upon waking. It tainted their surroundings.

 The sky cleared and the stars came out. The wind died down, blown papers slowly settling on the grass. Although it was night, seeing wasn’t a problem. Lamps around the flat came on automatically. Another little bit of dream improbability to see the night sky whilst in a living room with no walls and the comforting glow of a table lamp.

 John collapsed roughly onto the couch, rubbing his forehead. Sherlock sat beside him, watching him, not sure what he should do, if anything.

 He gave a pale smile, “I didn’t expect it to hurt that much.”

 Sherlock frown. He didn’t like the idea of John in pain and hurting all because Moriarty turned up.

 Studying Sherlock, John chuckled weakly.

 “I’m okay. Stop worrying.”

 “Now what happens?”

 Lips pursed and looking as thoughtful as he could under the strain of what must be a raging headache, he replied, “I’m not sure. I…I have never had this experience before. I am a little worried that I may slowly forget I am dreaming or,” and he shrugged, “I may have trouble finding my way back.”

 “Here?” That seemed unlikely. He could meet John back at Bart’s again; show him the way once more.

 “No, Sherlock,” John said quietly. “Back there. Back to me.”

 Sherlock looked at John carefully to see if he was serious. He was.

 “Do you mean…? What do you mean?”

 “I don’t know. There is still so much we are learning about dream merging. I have always thought of anchors simply as a way of staying focused and to help remember that you are dreaming, but…”

 “But?”

 He didn’t answer right away. And then he sighed, “But I felt something snap. It hurt when Moriarty bit into that apple. Something broke, like a tether. I don’t know.” John looked very tired.

 Sherlock decided to change the subject, for now.

 “How come Moriarty left when I told him too?”

 “He’s in your head. You have control. It’s something I teach people who are bothered by scary figures haunting their dreams. The monsters are really part of you, your subconscious and experiences. You control them. It is empowering for you to tell them to leave. You need to learn to do it by yourself, you need to mean it when you do.”

 Sherlock looked sideways at the other man. “What are you implying? Are you saying that Moriarty is an aspect of me? That he isn’t real? Because he was very much real in the waking world.”

 “Oh, he was real there all right, but here he’s not. He is just part of your memories, part of you.”

 This piece of news did not sit well. There was a tight claustrophobic feeling in his chest and it was as if the walls of the flat were closing in and there were no walls. His breath caught and the rush of anger and fear he’d experienced at Moriarty’s appearance raced in and filled his soul. _How dare he suggest such a thing?_ His concern for John disappeared in the onslaught of anger.

 Sherlock’s felt his emotions churning inside, he felt them swirl and pick up, emotions he had been trying to clamp down on most of his life. He didn’t always understand them in others but he recognized them in himself, even if he’d deny it. Knew if he wanted to, he could let them consume him and the man sitting there saying all the things he was saying. Things that were simply…

 “Wrong!”

 John looked confused. Perhaps if he hadn’t been in so much pain he would have noticed the signs. But he didn’t. He carried on, not noticing Sherlock getting more and more upset, not taking in the wind picking up once more.

 “What?”

 “You are WRONG!”

 Sherlock stood up from the couch and moved into John’s space again. He made as if to push John away, but he stayed sat on the couch. Sherlock wanted to hurt him. For saying those things.

 For saying he was like Moriarty.

 This time the clouds came in swiftly like a summer storm. Lightening crackled through the air and the lamps flickered eerily.

 John scrambled to his feet looking around the meadow.

 Sherlock felt powerful and terrible. He felt all the fury and pain, all the fear of the roof and of Moriarty, rage through him as the wind to pick up heavier objects and throw them, mugs, cups, souvenirs from cases, all went tumbling through the air, each getting closer and closer to John. As if it could stop him from saying those hateful words.

 He glared into John’s eyes.

 “I am nothing like him!” he hissed.

 oOo

 John was rubbing his head again when he felt the change in air pressure.

 He noticed Sherlock stand abruptly and tower over him as he sat on the couch. Heard him yell, “You are WRONG!”

 John looked up.

  _What the hell?_

 He thought back to what he had said.

  _Oh shit!_

 He closed his eyes.

  _Rookie mistake, Watson. Don’t tell the patient they are like the monster in the closet._

  _Don’t tell them they_ are _the monster._

  _God dammit._ He was too tired to even swear loudly in his head.

 If only he had been thinking clearly.

 John looked around as he scrambled to his feet. The angry glare thrown in his direction was almost palpable. He held up his arms and spoke in a calm and controlled voice. It was important to keep his emotions in check so Sherlock couldn’t feed off of them.

 “Sherlock, stop, please.”

 A book narrowly missed his head.

 “Sherlock,” he said softly, “look at what you are doing.”

 He did stop and a flicker of recognition came back into his eyes. He frowned. And then he looked more carefully, took note of John’s pale face and raised hands. His eyes widened further.

 He raised a hand to his mouth and then collapsed onto the ground.

 John rushed over. He hesitated for a moment as he wondered if he should touch Sherlock as he sat on the ground. He knew Sherlock was not a touchy feely individual but there was something compelling about wanting to put his arms around Sherlock and hold him. He held back until he heard a dry sob coming out of the figure on the ground and then John knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around the bony shoulders and drew the dark head to his own shoulder.

 His frame shook with suppressed fear and grief. John lifted a hand and stroked through the tangled curls. The dry sobs turned into real ones and long arms were wrapped around John and shaky hands clutched at his jumper. After a time the sobs subsided and Sherlock almost hastily sat up and back, his eyes downcast, a look of profound embarrassment in his face.

 “I…I don’t know what came over me. I’m…I’m…”

 “It’s okay. You have had a shock. You jumped off a building and have a head injury, you are lying in a hospital bed in a lab with electrodes stuck all over you, and,” John hesitated, almost afraid to address the heart of the matter.

 “And I have just discovered that monsters inhabit my soul.” Sherlock finished for him. He snorted. “That really should not have come as a surprise. I know Mycroft wouldn’t be.” And he chuckled weakly. John looked at him and Sherlock gave him a watery smile.

 John reached over and carefully wiped away the tears and he held Sherlock’s face in both hands.

 There was a moment when their reactions could have tipped them either way. A moment when a thousands things remained unsaid.

 And then John smiled and shook his head. “I can’t. I’m your doctor. It’s not right. I’d be taking advantage of you in a emotional state.” There was real regret in his voice.

 Sherlock looked down and nodded. “And I apparently don’t do relationships. Perhaps when we are finished here we could, umm, possibly have a discussion about the feasibility…?”

 “Perhaps.” John said simply. He stood shakily and held out a hand to Sherlock and helped him to his feet. “But for now, we have too much to do.”

 He sat wearily back on the couch. “I think you need to tell me about the roof Sherlock. I think,” he paused, “I think what happened there is keeping you here and Moriarty traipsing through your head is all part of it. Perhaps if you can discuss it and defeat your fears, perhaps you can wake up. Perhaps.”

 He paused and looked down. “I think your going to have to, because I might not make it back and somebody’s got to let Mycroft know.” He shrugged and then he grinned, lightening the mood, “If one of us doesn’t make it back I wouldn’t put it past your brother to come after us.”

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then nodded, in agreement with John’s idea of getting it off of his chest.

 He sat in one of the two chairs. He crossed his legs and stared into space momentarily gathering his thoughts.

 He then proceeded to tell John everything about Moriarty, from the first indication, the first time he’d heard his name, right up to the events leading up to when he stood on the roof.

 John listened and didn’t interrupt.

 And then he sat back and thought. Sherlock watched, somewhat anxiously.

 “Sherlock, I think I know what you are going to have to do, but you might not like it.”

 Verdigris eyes glimmered in the lamplight as he listened whilst John outlined his plan.

 oOo

 The team observed as both of the unconscious men’s heart rates and respiration increased and then slowed to more normal patterns.

 But Mike was still not happy with John’s brainwave activity. Something was not right. As he stood to go over to John and check the man, Mycroft entered the lab. He had been away during the entire time the anomalous readings were taking place. Neither Mike nor Sarah sent anyone to fetch him, as they were far too busy worrying over what was happening.

 Mycroft knew the second he walked into the lab that something was wrong. He could observe the tension and concern in the room.

 “What is going on, Dr. Sawyer, Dr. Stamford?”

 “We aren’t sure,” Sarah answered, still checking over Sherlock’s readings. “It appears as if both men were caught up in a nightmare, probably Sherlock’s. Something happened a few moments ago to Dr. Watson’s readings and there are alterations in his brain wave activity.”

 She went over to join Mike and the two began whispering furiously together.

 “Doctors, please. I would like to know what is happening.” It was not a request.

 Sarah glanced at Mike and nodded. “We are thinking of attempting to bring Dr. Watson out of the drug induced sleep early. We aren’t happy with his readings.”

 Mike hurried back to the computer and began typing in information whilst Sarah decreased the drip n the IV.

 “He should be awake in a few minutes.” She watched John’s face anxiously. Mike meanwhile continued to watch John’s brain activity.

 Time went by. There was no change and John remained asleep.

 He looked up at Sarah. “He should have come out of it.”

 Sarah nodded and looked at Mike fear evident on her face.

 “It’s like he didn’t come back, Mike.” She looked over at Sherlock’s prone body. “I think he’s trapped there.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 


	6. Labour of Love  (is ours to Endure)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hee hee hee! Yeah sorry – I am having way too much fun with this! Finally, finally the boys have cooperated & there’s kissing in this chapter. Who knew they’d be so difficult to work with? – Sorry tda & Lucy!! But it’s near the end & you can skip that part:D
> 
> Thanks to SassyVeeDub who wondered about worms in John’s apple.
> 
> Oh, guess what? Another cliffhanger – mwahahahaha!
> 
> Still don’t own!

“I am afraid you will need to explain yourself, Dr. Sawyer,” Mycroft pulled tetchily upon his waistcoat. “Is my brother in any danger?”

 Sarah frowned at the older man. “No more than he was before, but Dr. Watson is. We cannot revive him from his drug-induced sleep. It is almost like he appears to be in a coma, not unlike your brother was.”

 “Was?”

 “Yes. Sherlock’s readings are encouraging and it seems like something is happening. He may be closer to waking up. Now when that happens he won’t necessarily be aware or cognizant of his surroundings, right away. It takes time for the brain to ‘reboot’, if you will, after a head injury and of course we cannot be sure how much damage was done, but everything is pointing to a good chance for recovery. Dr. Watson, however, shows signs of not being able to get back. He has lost his way home.”

 Mycroft frowned gently. He did not want to exchange one life for another and he would feel a certain amount of guilt if Dr. Watson were to be ‘missing’, but if only one were to return, naturally he would wish it to be his brother. It wouldn’t do to say such things to the doctors who were Watson’s friends. He did the one thing his brother had difficulty with. He made the appropriate socially accepted conversation.

 “I hope that Dr. Watson’s consciousness will be able to re-inhabit his body sooner rather than later. Is there anything to be done?”

 Sarah and Mike looked at each other. Sarah shook her head.

 “We don’t know.”

 oOo

 Sherlock snorted, “That, John, is an understatement.” The doctor had just finished outlining his idea for helping Sherlock get rid of Moriarty. “I don’t just dislike it. I loathe it. What makes you think this will work?”

 John shrugged, “Because I’ve used this technique with other patients. It works well in extreme cases and I’d say this was an extreme case.” He paused, “So do you understand what you have to do?”

 “Yes, but I still don’t like it.” Sherlock was entering the beginning stages of petulance again. John rather felt like shaking him more than a little. He did understand all about the fear, the fear of facing your nightmares and coming out on the other side, even if it meant doing things you’d rather not.

 He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt a tingle at the brush of contact. “I know. I really do understand how hard this is, so that is why I am going to share something with you. Something that was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.”

 Sherlock looked up, interested. New information was always exciting, new information about John more so.

 John looked down at his feet. “This was a case that happened two years ago. One I was well aware of at the time. The police in Edinburgh came to us. A serial killer. He had been caught but he had tried to kill himself during capture. Tried to asphyxiate himself and caused irreversible brain damage. The police wished to use us because he had another victim, alive but hidden somewhere. They didn’t know where. They were hoping I could get in there and find out where she was. We were under time constraints because of the amount of damage to Jamison’s brain and the fact that his victim was most likely dying or already dead. I went in without any preparation and very little knowledge of the man.”

 He was thoughtful for a moment and a look came into his eyes, a look of sorrow so profound that Sherlock felt he could reach out and touch it, but if he did it might envelop him, enter into him and Sherlock would not be able to wash it off.

 “There was another reason I was motivated to do this. A personal reason. His last victim, the one the police couldn’t find, was my sister, Harriet. I was the only one who could do this. Sarah and Mike just didn’t have the ability to handle someone like Jamison and,” he shrugged, “they just weren’t as good at this as I am. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t prepared. I couldn’t handle the madness and it would have been better if I hadn’t gone in. He charged me as soon as I came into the dream. He was totally psychotic and nothing I could do could stop him. I was under a mental attack, not unlike what happened with Moriarty.”

 Sherlock could see traces of bitterness still there. He also knew what John was going to say before he said it.

 “I had to pull out and leave. There was no second chance. He died before I could go back in and with his death, we were unable to discover what he had done with my sister.”

 John looked back down at the ground. “The only comfort I could bring out of this whole mess was it was unlikely she was alive before I went in.”

He looked back at Sherlock, “But I will never know for sure and I have had to live with that.

 “I had nightmares too, Sherlock. Sarah helped me. She isn’t as good as me, but we came up with this technique and it worked. We’ve been using it since, for this type of event. Where you have to face the worst of yourself.”

 Sherlock was stunned. He had no idea; there was nothing to suggest that this man sitting before him had gone through anything like this. _How could I have missed it? How was it possible? This impossibly brave man, sitting here, jumping into the unknown on a daily basis, how can I refuse to face my fears, when what he has done is far more difficult?_

Sherlock cleared his throat and said the only thing he could.

 “All right. Let’s do this.”

 oOo

 What felt like forever and a day and was probably only seconds in real time, Sherlock let the sky lighten. The colours of the meadow appeared more muted and softer and there was a slight blurring to the edges of everything, almost as if the shelter realized the dream was almost over, the nightmare could end with the breaking of dawn.

 As he glanced around at the place he and Sherlock had created together, John noticed a change in the apple tree. ‘Yesterday’ it had been a tree in bloom, full of the promises of fruit, today the tree was covered with apples, bright red, shiny treasures, peeking out between leaves of emerald green. John crossed over to where the tree stood. Of all the objects in the unreality of the flat, this seemed the most real. He reached up, tugged and twisted and pulled an apple down. He held it in his hand, the weight and heft feeling tangible and solid.

 He turned to where Sherlock stood watching him.

 “Sherlock? Is this for me?”

 “I was hoping you could use it. To find your way back.” Sherlock smiled shyly at him.

 John felt a catch in his throat _. If only?_

 “Thank you,” he murmured, “but I don’t know if it works that way. I think I need to create the anchor in my head.” He looked back at the detective and saw fear and sadness flicker briefly across Sherlock’s face. “But,” John continued, “It is certainly worth a try.” And he smiled a warm, rich smile full of the potential of all possibilities and Sherlock felt the overlooked heart he’d thought shriveled and dead, jump a little in his chest.

 The apple transferred to his pocket, John came back to stand by Sherlock.

 “Are you ready?”

 Sherlock’s eyes glimmered in the crepuscular dawn of his dreams. He looked tense for an instant and then it was gone as if it never was. He nodded sharply.

 “All right then. Call him to you.”

 Sherlock turned and faced out toward the meadow, their backs to the refuge of the flat.

 “Moriarty. Come out, come out where ever you are,” his deep, rich voice breathed into the space between thought and imagining.

 The wind turned goose bump chill and the light increased to the colour of the sky before a storm. John looked around and noticed the objects in the flat seemed to have a liquefied quality to them as if someone had placed them in an oven.

 When he twisted back, he saw Moriarty had indeed returned. The consulting criminal stood there with his cocksure smile as he slowly rotated his head to look at the two of them with his dead, reptilian eyes, cold and calculating.

 “Well, well, well boys. How nice of you to ask me in.” He walked over to the two of them and he sniggered at John. As he approached, he pulled the remains of the apple out of his pocket. John refused to look at it, he continued to look Moriarty in the face, but he heard Sherlock’s surprised gasp. Out of the corner of his eyes, John could tell the apple had deteriorated and was in the midst of decomposing. He was sure he saw the flicker of movement there.

 Because John refused to look down, Moriarty brought the apple up to his eye level. The apple had indeed decomposed and there were worms and fruit flies crawling over the surface. An atavistic shuddered coursed through John’s body, but he didn’t blink and wouldn’t give the specter the satisfaction.

 “What’s the matter, dear Johnny, dear Johnny? No way back home? How terrible for you.” He leaned in, to whisper in John’s ear. “I guess you’ll be staying then. No? Time a little short for you? We’ll have to see what we can do to make your stay more _pleasurable_ before you go.” He stretched the word out with the flick of a tongue near the rim of John’s ear.

 Sherlock moved forward quicksilver fast and shoved Moriarty out of John’s space. Moriarty’s grin just widened further.

 “Oh Ho! Someone’s jealous!” He brushed down the front of his bespoke suit. “Please! Westwood!”

 He stepped back a bit, giving the two men some space. As he looked around, “Can’t say I like what you’ve done with the place Sherly. Seems things are falling apart. You know I could recommend a good decorator. Me!!” And he snapped his fingers and the flat morphed into something more formal and cold, definitely high-end designer. The only thing it seemed he couldn’t touch was the apple tree. It stayed in its place by the fire. Moriarty gave it a dark look.

 “Seems a tad sentimental for you, Sherlock. I really think you need to get rid of the things that are weighing you down.” He gave a pointed look in John’s direction. His eyebrow went up. “Hmmm, seems like we won’t have to worry too much longer about the good doctor. You are getting awfully transparent, John. Not feeling yourself?”

 Sherlock whipped around and took a closer look at John. John grimaced. He could feel his grip on this reality slipping.

 Sherlock reached over and grabbed John’s shoulders. “John! What’s happening? What is it?”

 Looking into the incredible eyes of the man standing before him, John said, “I think I’m going, Sherlock. I don’t think I can stay any longer. You’re going to have to do this without me.”

 The detective shook his head, his mouth working, hard. “No!”

 John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face. “You can do this. You are incredibly brave and you don’t need me. This is still your refuge to win. Fight him Sherlock, like I told you.” And because it might be the last time for both of them and because he had nothing left to lose and everything to gain, he pulled Sherlock down and kissed him.

 Time stood still as the kiss ignited into something more than just a kiss. Maybe because they were sharing the same space, maybe because being in Sherlock’s head brought their souls into alignment, maybe because it had been meant to be from the moment they had met, it was more than a simple kiss. It started out fierce but shy and became fierce and bold. John molded into Sherlock’s arms as they came around to hold him and shelter him. They tightened around him as if he never would let go. Sadly that wasn’t meant to be.

 A voice came from behind them. “Booooooriiinng!”

 They broke apart and looked over at Moriarty, who in the meantime had sat himself down and was now intensely interested in his fingernails.

 “Glad you got the chance to say goodbye, Sherly, ‘cause the doctor’s time is up!”

 And as Sherlock turned back to John, he just had time to see the last flash of his smile before he faded into nothing, emptiness left behind.

 Sherlock closed his eyes and counted slowly, pulling every ounce of strength into creating the mask he would need to wear, not that it mattered. Moriarty had seen everything, knew everything and it would make it that much harder to fight him. But John had been right. This was his war from the beginning for control of the nightmare he now found himself in.

 He turned slowly to face Moriarty, but he had one more shock before it all really began.

 The apple tree, the tree he had planted for John and had taken root in his very being the same way the doctor had, was slowly turning to fall. The apples, one by one dropped and littered the ground around the base of the tree, discarded, the way Moriarty had castoff John.

 “You can’t do that!”

 “Oh, but I can.” And he stood and looked at Sherlock, head titled to one side, as he came up to the taller man. He reached out and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “Because as we both know, my own, you are really me and I, really and truly, _am_ you!”

 And Moriarty’s features morphed until Sherlock found he was looking at himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Highest Branch on the Apple Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Kotori-Sensei on Fanfiction. Some of the things she discussed in her review were exactly what I was thinking for this and I asked her permission to use what she had to say about Moriarty. It is in John’s speech. Thank you my dear. It was inspiring!!
> 
> A bit of a shorter chapter, but this was a good place to stop – for me that is. Yeah another cliffhanger – I know – but I’m not sorry;)
> 
> Don’t own, just here to play and have fun!

Sherlock stood there watching and waiting as Moriarty morphed into a version of himself, was himself. The negative aspects of his personality, the terror and distress he had carried with him ever since he realized Moriarty, the real one, had been playing to win the game and destroy Sherlock in the process.

 The other Sherlock, the other him, smirked with a smile that looked out of place on his own face.

 He recalled John’s words, before he called Moriarty, while they were discussing the plan. Thinking of John sent a twinge of something into his heart, something he would bring out into the light and examine after this was concluded. He’d inspect and scrutinize it along with his feelings and his reactions to the kiss John had given him.

  _“You must understand this Sherlock, as much as you hate and loathe it, you must understand in order to defeat him, defeat the fear. Moriarty is that which lies within your darkest thoughts, your darkest desires. He is the embodiment of all that and more, a man who does what he wants, because he can. He takes and destroys and does anything he wants because he will never take into account the moral codes the rest of us have in place. You have that Sherlock; you have Moriarty inside you, we all do. It’s whether you chose to be him or be the man you were meant to be.” And John had looked at him and said, “Your brother told me you were a great man. He hoped you would be a good one. Choose Sherlock. Choose what’s right. Confront your fears and embrace them.”_

“So Sherlock. So _me_! Have you figured it out? Do you know where the boogeyman lives? Did your pet doctor help you before he,” and he blew across his fingertips, “disappeared? Poof!” And the shark’s grin opened wider.

 Sherlock tilted his head to the side and smiled. A different smile than the one his other self wore. It was calculating but there was no menace in it. It contained curiosity and acknowledgment, but no distress.

 “Oh, I know exactly who you are and where you live.” He stepped closer to the other, right up close.

 “You are the part of me I hate, the part I loathe. You are the shadow of the hawk and the spider in the corner. You will haunt my footsteps long after you have been turned to dust. But I know how to defeat you and I know how to control you.”

 The other paused momentarily and a flicker of doubt crossed his face and then was gone. It was replaced with false bravado. Sherlock recognized it easily. The shadow Sherlock spoke,

 “You think you know and you think you can purge me easily, but here and now there are only the two of us, here in your personal space, in your own world. You think you are secure from me in this private sanctuary, but as you can see I have followed you here. I will follow you everywhere. I _will_ be the shadow of the hawk and the spider in the corner. When you hear the footsteps coming up behind you, you will always wonder and fear that it might be me. Good luck liberating yourself of me so easily.”

 Sherlock just smiled and he allowed warmth and compassion to come into his eyes. “I know I will not be entirely free of you. That is not how fear works, but I do know that by accepting my fear, acknowledging your place in my thoughts and feelings, I know that is how I can control you.”

 And before his other self knew what was happening, Sherlock did the one thing that was totally out of character, completely a surprise; it was not expected so therefore the shadow could not see it coming. He wrapped his arms around his other half, his other self and hugged him to his own body. He whispered in his ear. “Let go. Don’t be afraid. You are part of me and I accept you for who you are.”

 The other struggled in his arms, he cursed and kicked, but Sherlock hung on tightly, not allowing any escape. He tried to frighten Sherlock by whispering words of horror, things he would do to him, things he would do to his friends and to John, but Sherlock ignored it all, took it as the ravings of a desperate entity and did not let go. The wind picked up and blew hurricane force at the two standing there. Sherlock remembered John saying that when it seemed to get hardest that was when you knew you were winning. He held himself and his fear as close as he could and relaxed into the knowledge that it would soon be over. The longer he contained him, the fainter and weaker the Moriarty self became until there was nothing left but a sigh and a whisper and as the last shred of his shadowy half disappeared and was absorbed, the overlay flat that Moriarty had imposed on the Baker Street refuge cracked, shattered and splintered into a thousand pieces. The flat underneath was still damaged and warped but it was as if spring had come through and swept the detritus of Moriarty’s foulness out and brought with it the hint of new life and renewal.

 Sherlock stood in the shelter and breathed a sigh of relief. The worst part was over. Now he needed to move on.

 oOo

 Sarah and Mike stood near Sherlock’s bed. Mycroft was on the other side, trying to stay out of their way. The two doctors were busy checking readings and vital signs, but both were so absorbed in what they were doing, neither saw the faint flicker of movement in Sherlock’s left hand. Mycroft took his brother’s hand in his own. He gripped the hand gently and applied a small amount of pressure, trying to let Sherlock know he was there.

 Sarah noticed Mycroft was doing and asked Mike to notify the rest of the team. It appeared that the younger Holmes was possibly coming around.

 A group of doctors hurried in, surrounded Sherlock and decided the best thing would be to move him back to the main part of the hospital into ICU. It would still take time for him to regain full consciousness and there was no telling what sort of damage may have occurred.

 Before he let his brother go, Mycroft leaned down and told Sherlock everything would be all right and that he would be there for him when he woke up.

 As Sherlock’s bed was removed, Mycroft turned to the two doctors and thanked them solemnly for their help.

 “Please do not hesitate to let me know if there is anything I can do for either of you and please keep me informed of Dr. Watson progress. I would appreciate any updates.”

 Mike and Sarah looked at each other sadly and then back to Mycroft. Sarah nodded and turned back to John’s bed her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her grief. As far as either of them knew there was nothing that could be done. Mike shook hands with Mycroft and showed him out the door. He went over to Sarah and pulled her into his arms, holding her while she cried.

 oOo

 Two Weeks Later

 Sherlock pulled at the edge of the blanket and asked his brother once more in a peevish voice when he was going to get him out of this god forsaken hospital.

 Mycroft, the patience in his voice wearing thin the more his brother asked, said, “For the last time, you are still recovering from a head injury, you have a broken leg and you are going to stay here until the doctors say otherwise. Don’t ask again.”

 Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “You have taken care of ensuring that Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly are safe? You are sure Molly is the only one who knows I am alive?”

 

The older Holmes rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock. I am very thankful that you retained those memories. I am very thankful you were able to tell me your plans and yes, before you ask again, I have everything in place. Once your leg heals completely, you should be free to finish tracking down and destroying Moriarty’s web, but it will take _time_.”

 Sherlock muttered something to himself.

 Mycroft sighed, “I realize your intention was to keep me in the dark and I know you did not wish for my help, but for goodness sake accept the fact that I do know and take what help I am offering you.”

 His brother frowned, “Fine, but you are not to interfere more than necessary.”

 Tired of arguing, The British Givernment just nodded. He glanced at his watch and then stood. “I must go. I have a meeting with the Home Secretary and there are questions to ask the Mexican Ambassador. I will be back at my usual time tomorrow.” He picked up his umbrella prepared to leave, but he turned back briefly. “And Sherlock, please do not harass the hospital staff any more than necessary. It will not get you out of here sooner.”

 The frown deepened. He was terribly bored, he wanted to leave and start the hunt for all things Moriarty. If only he hadn’t broken his stupid leg.

 There was a noise at his door. He turned his head and saw two unfamiliar doctors enter, one a woman in her early thirties, the other, an overweight man in his late thirties. Both looked strained. They approached his bed.

  _They are probably here to deliver more bad news. That’s what doctors enjoyed doing_ , he thought sourly.

 “Hello, Mr. Holmes. You do not know us, but we are familiar with you. The two of us were there when you first regained consciousness. We worked on you while you were still in a coma. I am Dr. Sarah Sawyer and this is Dr. Mike Stamford.”

 Sherlock looked at them intently. He vaguely remembered something his brother had said to him shortly after he passed through the confusion of first waking up. Not all of his memories of that time were as solid as he wished.

 "Yes,” he drawled, “Something about dream therapy. So what is it you believe I can do for you?”

 The female, Dr. Sawyer looked uncomfortable, “We are not really suppose to be here. Your brother requested that we not speak to you directly. He felt it might be detrimental to your recovery, but…” and she hesitated.

  _Curious._ Anything that might annoy his brother was always good, particularly if it was something Myc didn’t want him to know.

 “Go on,” he said.

 “Well, it’s just…” distress twisted her face and she was unable to continue.

 The other doctor, Stamford, picked up where she had left off, “We wanted to let you know that Dr. Watson, John that is, hasn’t come out of his coma yet.”

 Sherlock looked at the two doctors standing there. He could only think of one thing to say to the two of them.

 “Who?”

 

 

 

 


	8. I Will Run for Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope this chapter will make it up to you! I know! That was mean but I needed to end there to fit with the lyrics/chapter titles. Yeah, that’s right, I did! Oh and it was fun! Sure got some interesting reactions from you lot!
> 
> Lots of swearing and what you have been waiting for, possibly, maybe? Smut. Lots of it. I think I am trying to earn that explicit rating I gave it. (Sorry tda and Lucy – your version is in the mail – lol!!)

“Who?”

 The word reverberated through the air and was greeted with silence. Sarah and Mike looked at each other as if this was not unexpected.

 Sherlock watched with barely tolerant bemusement. He wondered what the two doctors were wanting from him. He did not know or remember this person they were talking about, he did not understand the air of concern that ran between the two of them and he was, in theory, not really interested. In theory.

 He would admit that the phrases ‘your brother requested that we not speak to you directly’ and ‘he felt it might be detrimental to your recovery’ were mildly interesting. Perhaps if he didn’t have the urgency to go out and destroy Moriarty’s web running riot in his head, he might have been intrigued enough to consider the two doctors before him as worthy of his attention, but…

 He smirked, bored enough that he didn’t mind telling them the facts of the situation, surly enough, in discomfort and frustrated from his broken leg to be a bit of a shit.

 “You have come to appeal to my better nature. I do not have one. I have no regrets informing you I have no interest in helping you. I could not be more indifferent and considering the fact that I am immobile, I will not be able to assist you. You should leave before my brother decides to return. If he has advised you to let me be, I suggest you follow that advice. He has a habit of making people who annoy us, have uncomfortable lives.”

 Feeling that he’d done quite enough to dismiss the pair, he turned and stared out the window, assuming they would scamper off.

 He assumed incorrectly.

 The male doctor, Stamford, puffed up and ineffectively sputtered a bit, but apparently the female was alpha enough to march over to Sherlock’s bedside and glare in his face.

 “You insufferable, arrogant bastard! Do you have any idea what John did for you? Do you have any concept of how difficult, how dangerous it was for him? You selfish, contemptuous prick. John is lying in a hospital bed, unconscious, because for some reason, he lost his way back after helping _you_ and you can’t be arsed enough to give a flying fuck about him. You have no idea of what you are doing to one of the most generous, compassionate men, one who found you interesting and complicated enough to help you. Go fuck yourself!” And she slapped him. Hard. She turned to march out the door, stopped and whirled back to return.

 “Here’s something to contemplate while you are lying here, bored and discomfited by inaction. Yes, I read your file. I know how driven you are, how much you need and crave puzzles and riddles to keep the relentless ennui from consuming you. Let’s see what you make of this.” She reached into the pocket of her lab coat and pulled out an apple. She placed it upon the tray where Sherlock’s latest meal lay untouched.

 She leaned into his face, anger and grief snapping like electricity around her.

 “This is what John used as an anchor to remind himself he was dreaming. I know from his notes that he told you. I know you used a watch that belonged to your grandfather. Maybe, in spite of the obvious brain damage you are experiencing, maybe that will make you feel something, you machine!” And she turned once more to go.

 Sherlock, slightly stunned and unprepared for both the physical and verbal attack, blinked to clear his vision.

 He stared at the apple, his brow furrowed, a sense of familiarity tugged at the back of his mind. He blinked again and rapidly a series of words swept through; _anchor, apple, watch, bee, bison skull, tree, Moriarty, kiss, John!_

Sherlock closed his eyes as wonder and awe flooded him. Images of a meadow, incongruously decorated like his flat, an apple tree growing under an open sky and a short, compact man, with a kind, warm, astonishing face standing there, smiling at him, worry replacing the well worn look of open friendliness, as he reached up, Sherlock’s face in his hands, strong, capable hands, and kissed him, kissed him in a way that even now took his breath away.

 How could he have forgotten?

 It took less than a moment, less than a thought, Dr. Sawyer had not even reached the door when he called out, apprehension, hope, confusion, and finally anguish rolling through the sound of the word, making the shortness of the one syllable stretch between the two of them.

 “Wait!”

 Dr. Sawyer stopped, anticipation evident in her slight frame. She turned to the man in the bed. He looked at her, his face looked young and vulnerable.

 “What do I need to do?”

 oOo

 Sherlock lay in the bed in the lab, hooked up to various machines and electrodes sprouting over his head like a weird octopus/hedgehog amalgam. He glanced over to the other bed, where a still, colourless form lay. The face he remembered from his dream, lacked the warmth and kindness, looked as if there really was no one there, the shell of a man, a man who had astonished him and aided him.

 Someone he may even love.

 It had been surprisingly easy to sneak Sherlock down to the lab, which made him wonder. His brother would not turn a blind eye on his comings and goings, he must be aware of the fact that the two doctors would attempt this, but he had not, uncharacteristically, ordered agents to stand sentinel outside his room. The hardest part of the whole excursion had been maneuvering around his broken leg.

 He mentally shrugged, being unable at the moment to do so physically. He would worry about his brother and his reactions after the fact. He had never much bothered with Mycroft’s thoughts and feelings concerning his safety, why should he start now?

 Dr. Sawyer came over to carry out an examine mirroring a similar one which, unbeknownst to him, had taken place weeks go, a lifetime ago. Her hands, remembering the task, trembled slightly. He swept his eyes across her face and noted the fact she was biting at her lower lip in worry and unease.

 “Perhaps it would be advisable for you to tell me what you are thinking,” he murmured to her.

 “We’ve never let a novice do this. You’ve had no training. It concerns me in so many ways. There’s so much that could go wrong.”

 The corner of Sherlock’s lower lip lifted as a compliment to his customary smirk. “Remarkable time to bring this up. Tell me, Dr. Sawyer, why didn’t you or Dr. Stamford try this? Wouldn’t it have been logical for you to attempt this since you are the professionals here? Oh wait,” His eyes narrowed, “You did. You were unsuccessful. I see.”

 “We looked for him, but it was all grey and misty, neither of us could get through the fog. I thought…I thought at one point I could hear him, but there was nothing. Mike and I think it has something to do with the fact that he was connected to you at the time. We think he may be lost between the two of you. Limbo, perhaps, if there is such a place. This is beyond our experience, Mr. Holmes. We are not sure how to proceed.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed, panic for John lost in murkiness, not being able to find his way out, swirled through his chest. He felt the fear he’d held while confronting Moriarty return, but this was all John. It was sharper, more defined. He knew, intrinsically and with wonder, he had so much more to lose if he couldn’t find him. Before, being against Moriarty he might have lost his mind, his identify, but in losing John, he would lose the heart he didn’t admit to having, the soul he didn’t believe in. He was rather astounded to place value on things that were so intangible and yet so suddenly vital to his existence.

 He carefully touched Dr. Sawyer’s arm. He looked into her eyes and told her silently it was time.

 She in turn stared at the man she had slapped in anger not that long ago and nodded.

 oOo

  _Fascinating. Bart’s._

He had vague memories of meeting John here for the first time. He looked at the watch in his hand. Dr. Sawyer had reminded him of the importance of the anchor, particularly after he had filled her in on his remembered conversation with John regarding his speculation that the destruction of his anchor had severed his ties to his physical body.

 Sherlock merely glanced around. This may be his brain’s idea of a good place to start, he mused, but it didn’t feel right. He knew he wouldn’t find John here. He took in the fact that the walls of the lab seemed to have lost a defining edge and even though labs weren’t known for their colourful atmosphere, everything was in shades of grey, black and white, even the posters about safety, usually overly processed in lurid colours to be eye catching, were muted.

 He moved faster than thought through the door of the lab and came out onto a moor, misty and cold. The lack of colour followed through into a twilight world.

 He listened intently, but even the wind that stereotypically haunted a place such as this, was quiet, as if waiting for something.

 He decided to set off, not knowing if he was going in the right direction, but conscious that logic, as hard as it was for him, had to be thrown out the proverbial window. This was a matter of love not intellect.

 He walked for seemingly hours over scrubby grass and past odd rock formations. If he had been a more fanciful, sentimental person, it would have felt like he was on an alien shore, as the feeling of being watched came through. He stopped and looked around. There was no sign of intelligent life, but the feeling persisted. Glancing around, he became thoughtful, not sure whether to trust his instincts in the matters of the heart. He closed his eyes and considered. The feeling that eyes were upon him intensified, but was familiar.

 With the recognition came realization.

  _John._

 John was aware he was here, but he didn’t know him. He was watching to see if this strange individual in his dreams was friend or foe.

 Sherlock opened his eyes and hurried in the direction he knew he would be.

 He crested a small hill and there, in an unforgettable looking meadow was an apple tree. The last time he had seen this tree, it had been dropping fruit and the leaves were falling. Now it appeared to be back to full spring, he could almost smell the blossoms from where he stood, a scent that lifted his spirits and filled a hollow space he didn’t know he had.

 Sitting under the tree, back against it, legs stretched out in front of him, sat John. Even from this distance Sherlock recognized the look of puzzled bemusement on his face. He watched him turn his head in Sherlock’s direction. John did not know him.

 Sherlock felt tightness in his chest. He paused as unfamiliar emotions entered in. He was uncertain how to go forward. He could almost hear John’s voice, reminding him about choices, taking chances, doing the right thing. Anticipation associated with an irresistible sense of the miracle of ‘what might be’ sped through him, pushing out the anxiety.

 Tingling with the rightness of what was happening, he walked toward John. He could feel his heart rate increasing and a flush develop across his face. His hands clenched and unclenched, as his body registered his reactions to seeing John, reactions he had once dismissed as weak and unimportant. Now he knew that without him, without these feelings for him, he was weak and unimportant. He needed the other man, to be strong and to revolve around him in a mutual need of gravity and attraction. They were the center of each other’s universes, could not function without one another.

 As he came closer, he was aware of John watching him cross the distance. Sherlock had noted some increase in tension, but John stayed seated and didn’t get up. He must have felt secure enough to let Sherlock approach him while in a more vulnerable position.

 He finally reached John’s side and stood looking down at him. Wariness and uncertainty played behind the blue eyes, paler than before as if John were washed out, faded as he had in Sherlock’s dream. There was so much different about him. Gone was the confident man from his previous dreams. Confusion permeated his entire being.

 “John!” Sherlock invoked his name like an entreaty.

 Head tilted in a familiar, endearing fashion, he looked at Sherlock.

 “Do I know you?” he asked.

 Sherlock was, at a loss of where to start, how to explain.

 “Yes. We are…friends. I have come to bring you back home.”

 John lifted a hand and passed it across his forehead. “Oh. Ummm. I don’t know where that is any more. I think I am lost.”

 Sherlock knelt beside him. “You were lost. But now I have found you. I didn’t know right away you were lost. I am sorry it took me so long to get to you.”

 A puzzled look. “Why don’t I remember you if we’re friends?”

 “Something happened to you. You were hurt trying to help me. You had an anchor and it was damaged and you disappeared. I couldn’t stop that.” Sherlock noticed that he was having difficulty seeing. It was because tears were filling his eyes. He was a little shocked and surprised. He never cried unless he was using it to manipulate someone. He was not use to having so many emotions overwhelm him like this. It was uncomfortable.

 John frowned and reached up, swiping a tear that had tracked down Sherlock’s face. He looked down at his thumb, which was wet, his face screwed up as if in pain.

 “Why are you sad?” John asked softly.

 “Because I didn’t know I had almost lost you. I didn’t know you were gone. I,” and he looked down at his knees, his legs folded under him when he sat beside John on the ground, “I almost threw away the most important person I’ve ever met before I even realized it. I am sorry.”

 Still looking perplexed, John sighed, shaking his head, as if to dismiss the man kneeling next to him.

 Sherlock thought for a moment and then an idea came to him of a treasured and remembered image.

 “Can I try something?”

 Looking at him guardedly, John said, “I guess.” He did not seem to put much faith in him.

 Sherlock hesitated for a moment, gathered his courage and placed a gentle hand on John’s chin, titled it upwards. He bent down and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He pressed into the kiss, firmly. John stiffened slightly, moved as if he would break away and then leaned into Sherlock. Sherlock tentatively swiped his tongue out and brushed it lightly against the closed mouth, as if asking consent. John shuddered and his lips parted, giving permission. His own tongue entered into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groaned and moved his hand to the back of the blonde head. Hair captured under his fingers, was soft and silky. His other arm reached around and pulled John closer to him, sheltering him. John’s hands came up and fisted in Sherlock’s shirt. It was slow and gentle at first, each exploring the other, tasting and wrapping their tongues around, rolling waves of passion plunging through and building. Then the waves crashed over them and they began to pillage each other’s mouth with increased desire.

 Sherlock remembered to breath, which the logical part of his brain found to be ironic as it was after all, a dream, the emotional part of his brain, slightly stunted and underused told him to shut it and kiss John harder. Mounting longing swept through him and he pushed John back against the rough bark of the tree.  He broke off a bit, used his teeth and grazed them across John’s lips. He then sat back and looked at the man across from him.

 John panted, but his eyes were clear navy blue once more, all the murkiness and perplexity gone.

 “Sherlock,” he exhaled. And he leaned forward and captured Sherlock's mouth and turning slightly, pushed him to the ground. John’s hands wandered down the long chest and began undoing buttons on his shirt. Sherlock broke off the kiss once more and spoke,

 “Not that I am objecting John, but are you sure you want to do this here? It is after all a dream. Don’t you think our first time should be,” endorphins were obviously interfering with brain function. He waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Out there.”

 He grinned at Sherlock. “We’ll have time for that later. I missed you, too. And,” John’s grin turned feral and he leaned down and whispered directly in Sherlock’s ear, a whisper that carried itself straight to his groin. “Because it’s a dream, we won’t need anything.” And he bit Sherlock’s ear.

 Sherlock groaned again, felt his heart rate increase and gave himself up, not even worried whether or not the effects of this would show up in the real world.  Part of him chuckled evilly at the other two doctors having to watch.

  _John is fucking my mind!_   _Or I am I fucking his?_ And with another shudder he almost came undone.

 John had managed to open the shirt all the way and was kissing his way down Sherlock’s neck, small gentle kisses at first that became harder the closer he got to his chest. He reached Sherlock’s right nipple and swept a tongue across and then lightly grazed it with his teeth. Just as he became use to the sensation, John bit him, hard. He gasped and lifted his head. John was grinning at him wickedly and continued to lavish his chest with attention.

 Deciding he was over dressed, he attempted to tug John’s jumper off of him.

 “Why on earth are you wearing that ridiculous jumper?”

 John looked at Sherlock. “I like it.”

 “Of all the items of clothing one could wear in a dream…”

 John’s smile, if possible, got wider and he removed the offending piece of clothing.

 “You know, since it’s a dream, we could just be naked.”

Sherlock sat up and grabbed the beloved face again and kissed him. In a rough, dark voice he said “No. I want to undress you. I want to throw your clothes around and leave them scattered between our thoughts. I want you to do the same to mine,” and with his teeth, he clamped down on John’s shoulder. Crying out, he just managed to push Sherlock’s shirt off of the slim shoulders and he flung it behind him.

 “Better?”

 Sherlock smirked. “Definitely.” He began tugging at the belt around John’s jeans and he popped the button. He slowly unzipped the jeans and pushed them down. He slipped his hand into his pants, wrapped his long lingers around John, who was hard and hot. John threw his head back and moaned and then bent and kissed Sherlock more as the other man freed his cock from his pants, pushed them down with his other hand and began slowly stroking, now and then flicking over the swollen head. John squeezed his eyes shut trying to prevent himself from coming to quickly. And then opened them again as Sherlock reverently kissed his tender lips.

 His voice husky with lust, he whispered, “I want you inside me, John. More than you are already. I want you inside me in all possible ways.” He looked at John with eyes large with desire, “Please.”

 John pushed him down again and removed each piece of clothing slowly, building the suspense between them, drawing it out, making it last. He swept his tongue over Sherlock’s cock and at the same time used one finger to tease and enter into him. Because they were inside their heads there was no pain, no discomfort and Sherlock stretched beautifully as another and then another finger was added. John, not being able to keep his eyes off of Sherlock, said. “You are gorgeous. You are the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen. Especially like this, under me, with me inside you.” With those words he slipped inside. With a growl, as he took John deep, took him all the way, Sherlock felt complete, more so than he had ever felt before.

 John rocked slowly at first and then built up speed.

 “Harder,” he gasped at John. “Harder. “ As John did, Sherlock grasped his own cock, aching and leaking, and began stroking it firmly, in time to John’s thrusts. It wouldn’t be long for either.

 And with a shout they both came and as they did, colour and light and warmth flooded the meadow.

 John lowered his head to Sherlock’s chest, eyes tightly closed once more, his own chest heaving from exertion, as he returned to his surrounding. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, sheltering him, protecting him, safeguarding them both from the sudden onslaught of emotions that stormed over the two men.

 John raised a bleary eyed face to Sherlock’s, kissed him once more and said,

 “You Sherlock, you are my anchor.”

 Both men heard the call to return home.

 oOo

 With those words echoing in his head, Sherlock’s eyes opened.  


 

 


	9. Endless Summer, Lift the Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to thank you for all all the interest in this story. I am truly blessed! I will thank you properly in the next chapter, which will be the last.
> 
> More smut here – yeah – it’s really why I wrote the story in the first place – lol!
> 
> Oh in case you forgot – ‘cause I know you might – I don’t own!

Endless Summer, Lift the Curse

 There was a flurry of activity around John’s bed as Sherlock became more conscious of what was going on. He was still gripped in the last images of his trip to rescue John and he was still fighting the remains of the drugs in his system. He knew John would not be able to just snap awake quickly and there would be after effects to his body from having been unconscious for so long. He felt a cold, clammy shadow pass through his heart as he worried whether there would be anything permanent to the ordeal.

 He would deal with that later. He was still too fuzzy to be completely coherent.

 A familiar face peered at him over the side of his bed.

 “Mycroft! What the hell are you doing here?”

 “Came to make sure everything went smoothly, little brother.” An unaccustomed but not entirely unfamiliar, just long missed, warm smile hovered on the edges of Mycroft’s mouth. Hovered, because such a smile wouldn’t dare land there of it’s own free will.

 Sherlock frowned, wishing the effects of the drugs would clear so his thinking wouldn’t be muddled. Mycroft looked entirely too smug about something for his comfort.

 Mycroft put a hand on his brother’s forehead and patted it. His warm almost smile was replaced with a familiar and far superior smirk. “I must say, Sherlock, you put on quite a public display of your…‘affections’ for Dr. Watson. I don’t think that sort of dream has happened to you for awhile.”

 A scowl creased Sherlock's face. “Shut up Mycroft. I hope it was embarrassing for you.”Mycroft just continued to smirk, “They are going to remove you to a private room, clean you up” he coughed discretely, “and hopefully I can have you released to my care. I have arranged, very confidentially I assure you, assistance to help you rehabilitate your leg once it’s fully healed. I will continue to make arrangements for you to prepare for your journey.”

 “John.”

 “Sherlock, we won’t know about the consequences this little trip has had until later. Hopefully all will be well. The staff has instructions to keep me informed.”

 Sherlock felt a sense of panic rising in his chest. Before John, the idea of going out alone into the world and hunting down Moriarty’s empire was logical. The concept of anyone coming with him on his mission was ludicrous. Now the thought of leaving John behind for an uncertain period of time was painful.

 Mycroft, naturally, read this on his face as easily as he ever did.

 “Shhh. Don’t trouble yourself over small details. All will be well,” And now a confident knowing smile was on his brother’s face. The one Sherlock really hated. The one that said ‘I know something you don’t’.

 Sherlock huffed and waited until he could be returned to his room.

 John’s bed was being wheeled out. Sherlock felt him go with a pang.

 “Soon,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

 oOo

 John became slowly aware of his surroundings. He felt odd, weak and not connected, as if he had been out of touch with his body for a long time. He vaguely remembered waking for brief moments only to be sucked under a wave of darkness once again. His eyelids felt incredibly heavy. He decided it wasn’t worth fighting them and he lay there listening. He was trying to place the beeping noise and other sounds. _Hospital._ He was in a hospital.

 There was another sound nearby, someone was breathing. There was someone in the room with him, close by. _Maybe Sarah or Mike_ , he thought.

 A warm, deep voice spoke near his ear, a voice that he remembered from dreams.

 “Good Morning John,” It was accompanied by a relieved chuckle and a hand running through his fringe. “I know you’re awake.” John could feel the smile in the sound of the man’s voice. He opened his eyes. It took a moment for everything to fall into place. His voice disused for so long, rusty and dry, whispered, “Sherlock?” He frowned in concentration.

 Warm soft lips touched his brow. Long, gracefully fingers interwove with his and a forehead bent down to lean against him. “It’s going to be all right, John. You’ve been asleep for a long time. But it’s going to be all right.”

 John felt warm and secure. He sighed heavily and slipped back under, but not as deeply as before. He was aware of Sherlock beside him and he heard the comings and goings of medical personnel, the murmurings of muted conversations, he just didn’t have the strength or energy to fully awake.

 It would be several more days before he was more aware of his surroundings and able to stay awake for longer periods of time.

 It would be weeks before he would return to normal.

 Or as normal as he would ever be.

 

 oOo

 3 Months Later

 Sunlight sparkled through the pristine windows. A warm breeze called, stirring the curtains, asking for company to venture outside, a last gift of summer, before the reality of fall and frost.

 The man in the three-piece suit ignored it, just as he ignored a lot of things ordinary people would consider gratifying. He derived his pleasure in other ways, methods most would not consider to be satisfying.

 He sat at a desk and glanced through a file he had looked at many times, one he had memorized. He read it almost four months previous, after his brother had jumped off a roof of a hospital, hoping to convince Moriarty’s followers he was dead, to protect those few he cared about. He had originally examined it in order to familiarize himself with the team he had hoped would save his brother or if not successful at least find the reason why his brother had jumped.

 It had all worked out. Sherlock had been saved and had rescued in turn. He was mostly recovered from his ordeal and soon he would be leaving to continue the work of destroying the foundations of an empire built on criminal activities.

 Honorable, dangerous work.

 But Mycroft for all of his cold, calculated ways was at heart a big brother and that had been brought closer to home this last season. He cared, in his own way, for his younger brother and even if his brother considered him to be manipulative and interfering he was going to do his best for him. He had made additional arrangements to ensure Sherlock had the best chance of coming home alive.

 There was a knock at his door. His PA entered and spoke.

 “Your brother is here, Sir, as you requested.”

 Mycroft nodded and sat up straighter. Sherlock entered, a slight almost unnoticeable limp accompanied his walk. His face was a mixture of annoyance and scorn, which Mycroft found amusing. He indicated to Sherlock to sit in the chair opposite and without a word he pushed the file he had been looking at toward Sherlock.

 File in hand, he glanced at the first page and then back at Mycroft. The British Government mentally scored one for himself in the long game of the Holmes brothers trying to shock each other.

“Why…” Sherlock began.

 “Just read it. Let’s see if you can come to any conclusions on your own.”

 There was silence for the next while as Sherlock read through a rather large amount of information.

 After he finished, Sherlock frowned, closed the file and placed it back on the desk.

 “Does he know you have this, that you’ve read it? He won’t be too pleased, that you’ve managed to find out so much about him.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered with an unnameable emotion. It could have been anger at the fact that Mycroft was being his usual insufferable, meddlesome self, it could have been anticipation, as he imagined the object of their discussion discovering his past had been so thoroughly examined, but Mycroft liked to think it was hope and perhaps, as unlikely as it seemed, gratitude.

 “He is aware that I looked through his file before the start of the Dream Merging. He is unaware at how complete said file is,” Mycroft and Sherlock shared a rare look of commiseration. They both recognized the range of Mycroft’s arms.

 There was silence for a time as the ramifications of what Mycroft had intended having Sherlock read this file, settled into his chest. This would solve some of the anxiety and grief he was experiencing as he contemplated leaving, but it was raising new concerns in its wake.

 "This isn’t a holiday.”

 “You will find, I think, that outside of the therapist’s office, he is a much more complicated and dangerous man.” Mycroft paused. “Surprisingly so.” He cleared his throat and rose from his chair.

 “I suggest you go and find him. He is probably in the garden again. Offer him the choice, Sherlock. He deserves it.” He smiled a genuine smile. “I really don’t think you will be surprised by his answer.”

 Sherlock sat, a quiver of something running through his frame. Mycroft could see he was wrestling with the concept. He then sprang to his feet and hurried toward the door of the office. Before he got all the way through Mycroft called him back.

Sherlock turned, impatience evident on his face, as he waited for Mycroft to speak.

 “Oh and Sherlock,” he said with a knowing smirk. “Do try to accomplish other tasks besides sleeping with the man.”

 Sherlock sneered and left without a further backwards glance.

 Returning back to his desk, he sat down again and reached for the confidential file. He tapped his long fingers together. Everything was working out just as he had hoped. When he had realized what Sherlock had intended he hadn’t, in the first panic moments, appreciated what a god send Dr. John Watson would be, but as he came to know him, as he became aware that John was intrigued and interested in Sherlock, as he became more familiar with the man’s past, especially his army days, he had quickly made plans. He knew, as he always did, that this would work, that he had found someone he wouldn’t even have to coerce to go with Sherlock and watch his back. He remembered the commendations and missions, secret missions, surprisingly quiet, unassuming, _Doctor_ John Watson (albeit in psychology, but he had had some medical training), _Captain_ John Watson, _crack-shot_ John Watson had been a part of.

 He was also aware that the two men would suffer cruelly if now parted. Being an observant man he had watched the two since they had come to stay at the estate to recuperate. It was almost physically and certainly mentally painful for them to be apart from each other within the confines of the house, let alone in the vastness of the world. This solution seemed to satisfy all concerned.

 He quietly continued to smile to himself, wondering what others would think of this softer side of his personality. He smirked to himself. It certainly wouldn’t do to let them find out.

 oOo

 John was wandering through the intricate gardens of the Holmes estate. He didn’t get tired of it. It was still amazing to him that he had ended up here and could enjoy a secret passion of green and growing things. Long years filled with tours of duty in Afghanistan, had given him an appreciation for the beauty of an English garden.

 Although still somewhat tired and closer to the thin side than before his involvement with Sherlock’s case, he was almost completely healed and back to peak physical shape.

 Almost.

 He was suffering from a series of nightmares. He would wake up shouting, usually dreams of either being lost on a cold grey moor or looking for something he had misplaced, something precious. Most nights long, talented fingers would run through his hair, caress his face, murmur soft words of safety and comfort. It would occasionally turn to more energetic types of comfort, leaving both of them content and sated in a carnal way. On those nights John would slip back into sleep, body tangled with Sherlock, limbs entwined so well it would be hard to separate the two, as if they were some new chimera, a hybrid of two fused into one.

 On other nights, nights were he couldn’t return to sleep, or where Sherlock, who had never required large amounts of rest, had simply not come to their bed yet, on those nights, John would usually get up and pad through the large, quiet house and make tea. He would actively seek out his loadstone, unerringly find him, drawn to him as he had never been to anyone else, physical separation seemingly painful, in the library, reading, deep in thought or playing the violin. Once or twice, after Sherlock’s leg had healed sufficiently to better navigate stairs, deep in the cellar of the house conducting experiments. It didn’t matter where Sherlock was, John could find him. Which in itself often put to rest the disquieting thoughts of losing him.

 John sighed. He knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock left anyway. He really didn’t know what he would do once he did go off on his hunting mission. He couldn’t go back to the lab. Something had happened while separated from his body, something both psychological and physical. Sarah had paid a clandestine visit, all notice of Sherlock being alive quietly hushed, and they had attempted some simple beginning dream therapy, which had left John shaken and nauseated. He had found an isolated place to think after Sarah had left, wondering about his future. Sherlock hadn’t known how to approach him, unsure of what he could do to help and had almost comically hovered just out of sight waiting for John to return from an introspective journey.

 The therapist in him had supposed he could do conventional treatment with patients, but that seemed rather tame after his trips through other people’s heads. He could also help Mike and Sarah develop their abilities to do the work, but that also seemed hollow and unsatisfying. He had rejoiced in the thrill of entering the dream state, of chasing other people’s monsters. Now he was at sea and bereft of purpose.

 All of these musings rolled and flowed through his thoughts as he wandered the garden, some memories and ideas well tread, some new, none in any kind of order; he just let them wander through his mind.

 He stopped and glanced around, certain he had heard a familiar and beloved voice call his name.

 “John!” came the call again.

 He turned and looked down the path. His heart began to thrum and his pulse increased. He felt stirrings of longing shoot through him. He knew he would never get tired of simply watching Sherlock move with the almost animalistic grace that accompanied even the smallest of actions.

 Sherlock almost flew up to him, his body vibrating with the proximity of John. Ever since the incredibly spectacular melding of their minds when Sherlock had sought John out, they had to just be within sight to feel the bodily response of being together. Not distracting at the moment, rather it was as if nothing else existed but the two of them, as if Sherlock had left parts of himself in John’s awareness and John in Sherlock’s and they were simply seeking to return home.

 John looked into the other’s face, his lips parted automatically, and he leaned as a flower seeking the sun, into the taller body, not quite touching, just breathing the same air. He quickly swept his graze across Sherlock’s face and his eyes widened as if he knew what he would say before Sherlock had even voiced the words. Another startling side effect of being together, they would never be able to hide thoughts from one another again.

 “You want me to go with you.” Statement, not question, no hesitation, answer given before Sherlock could even offer the choice.  It had been a done deal the moment John had crossed into his dreams.

 Sherlock, still often uncertain outside the bedroom of what was his right to touch, lifted a slightly unsteady hand and hovered over John’s face, and then with the tips of his fingers traced along John’s jawline. He then scowled rather comically.

 “Mycroft’s doing, the interfering git,” John laughed at the use of the vernacular, something he was certain Sherlock hadn’t done before they had dreamt together. He was expanding his use of swear words as well.

 John’s eyes just as quickly narrowed, “He read more than just my therapy work, didn’t he? He’s been digging into my army days.”

 Sherlock smirked, “Lucky for us he had, John. He was quite impressed with some of your activities.” He sobered and looked oddly ashamed. “I hope you don’t mind. I read it as well. I wouldn’t have, not with out asking you, but Mycroft was insistent.”

 John raised his own fingers and placed them on the lush mouth. “I don’t mind. It’s not anything I wouldn’t have told you eventually anyway. Or,” and he grinned a rather cheeky grin. “You wouldn’t have figured out on your own.”

 Sherlock reached up and captured John’s hand in his own, his thumb stroking along the palm, which he then turned over and kissed, with just a hint of tongue.

 An electric thrill coursed through him and John gasped. Sherlock’s eyes, the usual grey-green, were quickly swallowed by need and arousal, as he took one of John’s fingers and placed it in his mouth, sucking hard, employing his tongue in a method that made John react physically, a certain part of his anatomy very familiar with the talent of his tongue, suddenly quite interested in where this might be leading. John groaned and wrapped his free hand into the dark curls and pulled his lover’s head toward him, his mouth already opening, Sherlock replaced John’s finger with John’s tongue. Soft, heated kisses, promises of more, danced upon willing lips, tongues wrapped around each other as close as their bodies had been wrapped the night before, soft nips, softer sighs. Sherlock released John’s hand which immediately found it’s way to the back of his shirt and began tugging it out of the expensive trousers. The same hand then touched bare skin and it was Sherlock’s turn to gasp as the sort nails and rough calluses trailed fire up and down his spine.

 Sherlock broke away from John.

 He had to voice the uncertainty he was feeling. “Are you sure John? It could be dangerous.”

 John’s smile, full of promise, widened, “Ah the magic words, love. Now you’ll never stop me from coming.”

 And then it was his turn to smirk as the double entendre filled the air between them. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then recaptured John’s mouth and licked his way down his neck, nipping. He quickly sank to his knees, indifferent to the dirt on his trousers and the gravel. John made a halfhearted protest, concern over the stress to Sherlock’s healed leg warring with desire at the thought of what Sherlock was about to do. The other man meanwhile had sacrificed the delights of exploring John’s chest, worked his way to the zip on his jeans. He looked up at John, lips half pouted as if they were made for sex, hair disheveled and he grinned, eyes twinkled with unspoken guarantees. He placed a hand upon John’s erection and maddenly rubbed the bulge there. A shy, but insistent tongue traced John's lips.

 He flicked his eyes back to the sight in front of him and quickly pulled John’s jeans down, soon followed by his pants, his hands almost shaking with want. With a groan he cupped the balls, heavy and full, rolled them, felt their weight. He leaned forward and swiped them with his tongue and John’s muffled moan filled his thoughts. He proceeded to lick and taste the underside of John’s cock, swollen with desire. As he reached the end, he placed his mouth teasingly over the tip and swirled his tongue. John’s fingers laced themselves in Sherlock’s hair and tugged, not painfully, but enough to give a clear indication of what he needed. Sherlock took him fully, earning another gasp and a tug. He worked John, with his tongue and cheeks until John’s grip tightened in warning. Sherlock ignored it and swallowed him as he came. He looked up with a wicked grin, eyes never leaving his, as his carefully licked his lips. John, panted and returned to himself, his eyes still filled with lust and longing. He helped Sherlock to his feet, pulled up his jeans enough not to trip over them. He tugged him down the path to a hidden grotto, where he slowly undressed him, unwrapping each piece of clothing as if he were a gift. He trailed impatient fingers over Sherlock’s marble chest, basking in the splendor of the shape before him. He made faster work of his own clothes.

 Sherlock produced a bottle out of his trousers that had been carelessly tossed aside and John shook his head, bemused. He carried it everywhere. The household staff had taken to knocking on every closed door, because of the amorous activities of the two men.

 Pushing John onto the slightly damp grass, as he continued to kiss and stroke him, neither man noticed the slight chill in the air as it crept closer to evening. Sherlock made quick work of opening John, teasing and caressing his prostrate, working him into a frenzy until he was almost ready to come again. Sherlock entered in, hissing at the tightness and heat of the other man. He steadied himself momentarily, attempting not to come just from this feeling and looking at John spread out below him. John reached up and stroked a sharp, chiseled cheek. Sherlock turned his head and kissed the palm once more. Then with strokes that became faster and harder, he approached the edge and then stopped to catch his breath. He held back to wait for John to come to the peak again, tormenting and handling his cock, fondling him at the same time, in the same rhythm, as he hit his prostrate. With a finally thrust, Sherlock came hard and slumped over John, rousing himself enough to continue pleasuring him. John came again, this time with Sherlock watching, cataloguing his expressions, treasuring and storing them. It was almost enough to make him hard again, watching John’s orgasm. He then collapsed, legs once more tangled together, as if they belonged nowhere else. He stroked a hand across John’s chest, played and tweaked his nipples, examining him as the after shocks of such ministrations continued to travel through the shorter, stockier frame.

 He leaned over and kissed a sweat-dampened brow. John rose enough to sleepily grin at the man he loved. “Haven’t had this much sex since my younger days. Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?”

Sherlock’s dark, throaty chuckle reverberated through John. His reply to the question was to slowly, almost lazily, kiss and torture John, as he plundered and celebrated his mouth. He decided that kissing John was definitely one of his favourite things.

 He leaned back a bit and said with all seriousness. “I am not sure how often we will be able to have sex while we are on the hunt. If you are up to it I can probably manage one more time tonight. We are leaving in the morning.” He paused “Are you sure John. It won’t be easy.”  
  
John’s eyebrow quirked at Sherlock’s words a hint of a smile played on his lips and as if answering both statements, replied as he stroked his hand down Sherlock’s back.

“Nothing worth having ever is, Sherlock. As long as we are together, I will be ready whenever you are.”

 He brought his beloved’s mouth back to his own, sealing the promises between them, as the sounds of evening closed around them.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. It Feels Like Nothing Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks – this is it! Last chapter. I'd like to thank everyone who has been following this story! I am so happy with all of the response I got for this. I had a scattering of requests for a sequel. I am still thinking about that. I have a very, very small glimmer of an idea, but I am not going to promise anything. I am not always happy with my sequels and I will have to think it through.
> 
> As always, I do not own! I do have a lovely piece of art, a story I am happy with (that’s a lot for me) and lots of new readers. That makes me smile:). If I did own I might let you come over and share – might:P

The black cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock climbed out of the vehicle as gracefully as he did everything and stood on the sidewalk contemplating the return to his home from the long absence. The home he’d been away from for over two years. A home there were times he wasn’t sure he’d see again.

Not many would have recognized him as he stood straight and tall, hands in the pockets of his beloved coat, returned to him the night before, the air of winter nipping at his cheeks and brushing them with a slight pink, making him look healthier than he probably was. Being away for so long, always on the run, always on the hunt, he’d lost more weight than he could afford. Still, he’d gotten away with more than John.

 Almost as if he’d heard his name flow across Sherlock’s mind, John slowly pulled himself out from the cab. Hearing the movement, Sherlock whirled quickly, slightly ashamed he’d been lost in thought, neglecting him. He held out a hand. John looked up from where he sat, pale and thin, as he grinned that grin that went straight to Sherlock’s heart, plummeted it, sent it on a different trajectory and made it miss a few beats in the process; a grin Sherlock at one point wasn’t sure would ever flash upon that open, sunny face ever again. John grasped the proffered hand with his right. As their fingers brushed, the electric hum of contact pulsed through them. It always would.

 Sherlock helped the other steady himself and asked “You all right?” softly.

 John shrugged his right shoulder, his left arm strapped and still immobilized from the surgery to his shoulder and recovering fairly well, all things considered.

 “I’ve been better. But then,” And his eyes crinkled up more. “I’ve been worse as well. I’ll be fine. The past is past. Let’s move on, shall we?”

 Sherlock’s hand, of its own accord, rose up and traced along the crow’s feet at the corner of John’s eyes, brushed through the short, silky hair, more gray than there had been. His fingers skimmed down his cheek and along the determined chin, he tilted John’s face up and softly, softly, placed his lips upon the slightly roughened ones. John’s free hand came up and his fingers wrapped themselves around the back of the other’s neck, stroking through the short ginger hairs there, all that remained of the black riotous curls. They pressed together and a sound began to come up from the bottom of Sherlock’s throat, a cross between a hum and a groan. It had been so long and there had been so much apprehension, wondering if John would even make it. The overwhelming need and want of John right here and right now, threatened to engulf him.

 Fortunately for the passersby, the cabbie shouted “OI! Lovebirds! Metre’s still running here!” and they reluctantly broke apart.

 Sherlock chuckled, the first real laugh since John had been shot and it cleared away the last of the doctor’s fatigue and replaced it with sunlight. That was a precious sound and one John had been longing to hear again.

 Leaning into the cab Sherlock tossed more than enough money at the cabbie. He then grabbed the two small bags with their personal things. Not that either had many at this point and what they did have Mycroft had had to replace most. He then turned, walked up to the door and rang the bell. John, by this time, had made his way to stand beside him.

 He glanced quizzically at the younger man.

 “You’re still not nervous are you?”

 Sherlock huffed. “Me nervous? Don’t be ludicrous. I am never nervous.”

 John felt his grin could not get any wider, but he simply nodded his head thoughtfully and waited to see what Sherlock’s landlady (from all accounts so much more than a landlady) thought of Sherlock’s return from the dead.

 The door opened and a petite, older woman stood there. John noted that she still retain good looks and must have been stunning when she was younger. She seemed confused for a moment and then shrieked and flew at the detective; her small fists pummeled him as John waited and did nothing, just enjoyed the show.

 “You stupid, stupid boy! You horrible man. How could you? How could you do this to me? Let me think you were dead all of this time.” Her tirade went on for some time, while Sherlock, much to John’s surprise, took the punishment fairly stoically. Finally, tears streaming down her face, she threw her arms around him and pulled him to her. Sherlock gently and carefully, hugged her and patted her back. His countenance airing pleasure and surprise. John watched his face with amusement and something akin to awe. He knew, that beside himself, there were very few people Sherlock truly cared about. He also was aware how anxious Sherlock had been about this meeting, with this woman whom he could see meant a great deal to him. She had been, after all, one of the three Sherlock had jumped for.

 After a few moments, the woman pulled herself together, took a tissue from the sleeve of her blouse, blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She tutted a bit over the shorn hair and then she settled her shoulders back, smiled a watery smile at Sherlock and turned to John.

 “Now then, Sherlock, who’s this?” As if the last few minutes had not taken place. She smiled a kind and motherly smile at John. He basked in the glow and could see why Sherlock cared so much for this remarkably resilient woman.

 “Mrs. Hudson, may I introduce you to Dr. John Watson, John this is Mrs. Martha Hudson, my landlady. John is my partner.”

 He was carefully enveloped in a hug as warm as the smile.

 “Oh, Sherlock, I can see he’s more than just your partner,” she stage whispered. “Good catch, my boy. A doctor!”  She patted John on his good arm. “You must be something special to put up with the likes of him. But I see there’s a story waiting to be told here. Come in, come in. You must be tired. Tell me all about it, Sherlock. How did you get injured Dr. Watson?”

 Mrs. Hudson continued to ramble as they walked up the stairs to Sherlock’s old flat. She acted as if he were just returning from holiday, not like he’d come back from the dead.

 “Made me wonder, it did, Mycroft insisting the flat be kept up, kept clean. He paid more than fair value for the rent of the place. Insisted it not be used or let out. Didn’t want your things mucked about. It crossed my mind to be a tad suspicious of the whole thing, but there you go.” And she threw open the door to the flat. Sherlock walked in and stood in the doorway, taking it all in. The flat, his home, so much more than just a place to rest and recuperate, it was an extension of himself. He finally moved aside and John was able to see for the first time the reality of what had been present in their dreams.

 It was a little disconcerting. Everything was the same as it had been in the shelter. The fireplace, the 2 skulls, bison and human, the couch and chairs, but all contained within walls. John felt a tad claustrophobic not to see open and impossibly blue sky above him. He found he had an ache in his heart for a missing apple tree.

 Sherlock looked into navy eyes as they swept back to his and saw the wonder and confusion.

 He took John’s hand, kissed the back of it and whispered,

 “It’s all real.”

 John nodded slightly and shook his head.

 “You have a good memory to have been able to place all of this in there.”

 Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

 “You have a good memory to remember a dream place from two years ago.”

 A strange and disquieting look passed over John’s face, but Sherlock let it pass as Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

 “Got a call from Mycroft this morning, demanding that I put fresh sheets on your bed and stock the fridge. I assumed it was going to be friends of his staying here. Demanding, I tell you. I will have words with that boy one of these days.”

 Sherlock and John looked at each other and grinned, both at the though of Mycroft having friends and being spoken to.

 Mrs. Hudson then bustled off to make tea for the three of them. “Just this once, mind. I’m not your housekeeper,” called over her shoulder.

 John, meanwhile, settled himself in a familiar chair. It was more than odd sitting in a corporeal chair he’d never sat in before but was as familiar as the back of his hand.

Coat and scarf hung on the hook on the wall, Sherlock came and stood by the chair.

 “Do you need anything? Your pills are in the bag.” He tossed his head in that direction.

 John smiled up a Sherlock. “No, I’m fine. Just tired.”

 He nodded and span about to sit in the chair facing John. He smiled at John, his mind filled with thoughts of what they would be able to do later. He’d have to be careful and considerate, since John was still recovering, but there were still many, many opportunities to show his desire and need. He shuddered lightly with anticipation.

 Mrs. Hudson entered the room, set a tea tray upon the table and poured out tea for the three of them. She settled herself upon the couch and looked at Sherlock expectantly. He sighed and began the long process of debriefing. It was a more thorough interrogation than the one Mycroft’s men had put them through upon their return. John’s had been less of an ordeal because at the time he was still recuperating. Sherlock placed a stray and irreverent thought at the back of his mind, _Mycroft may want to employ Mrs. Hudson in the future_.

 He took her through the story of the days leading up to the jump. She teared up and proclaimed, “Oh, Sherlock!” when he explained why he had had to jump. He told her about his coma and how John came to be involved, skipping a lot of the more graphic details and sticking with “He helped me regain consciousness.”

 Then he told of their hunt through Europe and North and South America, taking down Moriarty’s web, again he skimmed over a lot of detail, partly because of security, partly because he didn’t wish Martha to have nightmares. When he got to the last days, the last person they had to track down, he hesitated.

 John took over with his calm manner and explained the luring of Sebastian Moran to an abandoned flat in Berlin, drawing him out with the tantalizing idea of Sherlock being alive. He spun the tale in his quiet way, not pulling any punches with his own stupidity of letting Moran shoot him. Sherlock cleared his throat, glared at John and then turned to Mrs. Hudson.

 “He jumped in front of the bullet. I shot Moran and almost lost him.” He looked back at John, who waved off Sherlock.

 “Nothing quite as heroic as he makes it sound.”

 Sherlock continued to glower.

 “Yes, but if Mycroft’s men hadn’t have turned up when they did…” he let the sentence hang.

 John smiled at Sherlock fondly, “But they did Sherlock, and I’m still here.”

 Sherlock nodded tightly, and turned to Mrs. Hudson. “And then the idiot contracts some ridiculous infection and I almost lost him all over again.” He sniffed dismissively, but Mrs. Hudson was not fooled.

 “There, there, you’re home now. I’m going to leave you two alone to get settled. Call me if you need anything. And I’ll talk to you in the morning.” She turned to leave but shouted back up the stairs, “Oh and boys, not too loud, please. I need my sleep as much as you two obviously do.” And she winked and was gone

 Sherlock stood and followed her. He closed the door and turned to John sitting in the chair. He smiled wearily up at Sherlock. A tiny piece of Sherlock’s now obvious heart broke at the sweet smile on the face of the much too thin man. His mind tumbled over the precipice of what might have happened. He vividly remembered all of the blood pumping out of John and covering the two of them as he tried to stop it. Mycroft’s men had indeed showed up in the nick of time and rushed John to the nearest hospital. Mycroft had sent the best specialists to them and they had been able to repair most of the damage to John’s shoulder. He would still lose some of his fine motor in the left hand, but as John had said at the time he wasn’t a surgeon and he shot with his right, so it wasn’t as great a loss as it could have been.

 John, who was as good at reading Sherlock as Sherlock was at reading John, held out his right hand and simply said, “Come.”

 He walked over and sank boneless at John’s feet. He placed his head in John’s lap while his hair was stroked. Sherlock had dyed it an almost acceptable shade of ginger in order to disguise himself, but it was the curls that John missed the most.

 “You’ll have to let your hair grow out.”

 Surprisingly Sherlock chuckled again as his arms tightened around John’s legs.

 “What?” John asked.

 “The look on Mycroft’s face when he met us at the airport. You’d think he’d have noticed sooner. I knew he’d been tracking us on the CCTV cameras everywhere.

 John, continuing to run his fingers through the shorn hair, felt him relax into his ministrations, chuckled along. “I suspect it’s harder to see colour on some of those feeds.”

 All was quiet for a few moments, until a thought returned to Sherlock’s mind.

 “John?”

 “Hmmm?” came a sleepy reply.

 “Why did you look so surprised when we were talking about the shelter? When you first saw the flat?” Looking up,he swept his gaze over John’s face.

 “You still dream about it don’t you?” he sat up and leaned back upon his heels. “You still go there, don’t you?”

 John heard something in Sherlock’s voice, longing, perhaps a touch of jealousy.

 He blinked slowly and opened his mouth. He closed it again.

 He tried once more.

 “Every night since we left, Sherlock. It’s peaceful there. It’s quiet. And…”

 He paused as if unsure as to how Sherlock would take the next piece of news.

 “And?”

 “You’re there too.” John sighed. “I thought you’d remember. We talk about it every dream, but you don’t seem to remember it in the morning, so I didn’t bring it up.” He paused again. “Sherlock, you know we are still connected through that place. Think about it. How else do you suppose you know me so well, know what I’m thinking, how we both know when the other is hurt, like that time in Rio? We are still tied to that place. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to leave. I don’t know if I want to.”

 Sherlock was stunned.

 He never forgot anything he didn’t want to, yet here was John telling him that every night they met in the shelter, every night they spent time together, shared each others thoughts and knowing the way the two of them acted around each other shared each others bodies a well and he did not remember a single thing from their time there ever since he had awoken after finding John.

 “It’s all right, you know. There must be a reason why you don’t remember. We’ll figure it out.” He touched Sherlock’s face, concern and worry in his eyes.

 “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 John shrugged with a single shoulder. “There didn’t seem to be a good occasion to bring it up, being on the run and all. I didn’t want you distracted. But now,” And he smiled again. “Now we have time.”

 Sherlock thoughts turned dark for a moment, not because of what had just been revealed but something he remembered. “John, I have wanted to tell you for a long time now. I am…I am sorry for what I, what I did to you, for what my Moriarty self did to you in there. You wouldn’t have been lost and you wouldn’t have had to quit your work if it wasn’t because of me.

 John placed his hand on Sherlock’s mouth.

 “I’m not sorry. I am not sorry one bit. If that hadn’t have happened, I wouldn’t be as connected to you as I am. I don’t know if we would be here, right now. It was fate and good luck and whatever else you want to call it. It was what was meant to have happened. But even if it wasn’t, we are here now and we are together and I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He leaned in and kissed Sherlock, kissed him hard and with all the want that had been building between the two of them ever since they knew John was going to be all right. They had shown each other in other ways, how much they meant to each other, through care and consideration. It was now time to show each other in the best possible way. 

 Sherlock felt the heat and desire rush through his veins as John’s lips met his. He fumbled with the belt on John’s trousers.

 John pulled back and giggled a little.

 “Whoa, slow down. Let’s take this to the bedroom. I don’t know about you but I’m looking forward to doing this somewhere that isn’t a shoddy hotel room, or a park…”

 “Or that garage in Phoenix.” Sherlock’s mouth quirked remembering he time in question.

 “Oh yes!” grinned John ruefully. “That was memorable.

 He grasped Sherlock’s hand and began to lead him toward the bedroom when something on the table between the two windows caught his eye.

 Sitting on the table was a metal bowl, artfully made to look like a stylized basket. Placed inside was a collection of apples, all new, fresh and shiny.

 He paused, looked at the bowl, looked at Sherlock, back to the bowl, his face slightly worried.

 Sherlock followed his gaze and felt his eyebrows went up.

 “John…” he began, his mouth suddenly dry.

 “John, I know what you’re thinking, but sometimes a bowl of apples is just a bowl of apples.”

 John studied his face.

 He nodded with a slight reluctance.

 Then he sighed, carefully, cautiously. He smiled and the full weight of that smile entered into Sherlock’s heart.

 “You're right. Of course you are.”

 And with that he let Sherlock lead him down the hall to the bedroom, the basket of apples the furthest thing from his mind.


End file.
